Where Nightmares End and Dreams Begin
by michellemybelle25
Summary: Erik holds Christine to her choice and seeks a new life together.
1. Chapter 1

OK, here is the first chapter of the longer story I promised. This one is specifically dedicated to the many people who have asked again (and again! ) for a story that includes Erik and Christine as parents. But this isn't just a baby story; it's a little something for everyone! I hope you will all enjoy it!

SUMMARY: Erik holds Christine to her choice and seeks a new life together.

"Where Nightmares End and Dreams Begin"

Chapter One

I have never been one to trust my intuition. Intuition once told me to be wary when a voice began to speak to me and called itself an angel, and I shut it out and chose the fantasy and lies instead. Intuition once said that chasing behind Raoul was only going to end in disaster; again, I deafened my ears and made the Vicomte my everlasting hero. Intuition insisted that there was more to a masked man than the sins on his soul, and if I but looked and truly _saw_, I could love. I didn't _want_ to look, and so I closed that premonition out as well and denied love could exist at every turn.

Love a disfigured murderer? Ludicrous! Never mind that my heart had its own agenda and fell without my permission. _It_ loved behind every wall I tried so desperately to construct, and intuition was its ally in every whispered foreboding. Intuition knew that last night in the catacombs of the opera that Erik would go to extreme lengths for his own version of love, that he would choose a route that resembled insanity in his frustration to get me to admit the truths behind the walls. Love… I'd conceded to a kiss, but _love_? I chose sense over the heart's logic and never spoke the word.

Intuition was a persistent infection, and when one denied succumbing and believing in it, one made mistakes and had guilt as penance. That final night and one kiss, and I was determined never to shut out its guidance again. It was the sensation of intuition that made me certain that our story was not over. As Raoul and I returned to the de Chagny mansion, exhausted and with suspended hearts, intuition said it would be the last time I saw him…

"It will all be better in the morning," Raoul assured, clasping my shoulders between his palms and gazing at me with those sweet blue eyes. The boy I'd spent childhood enamored with, willing to do anything to gain his affections in return, and now I had them and wasn't sure they were everything my child self had once envisioned.

Raoul looked fatigued, more than body despite the leftover indents from a noose about his flawless throat. Those were marks that would heal and fade as if the entire evening were only a nightmare. But scars within, …those were permanent, and the three of us who played the main roles in the night's drama would carry them forever. Raoul loved me; I did not doubt that, and I did not question that he would remain ever-devoted even after I'd kissed another man in front of him. But the scars would exist in our every shared stare, every kiss, every intimacy. He'd never forget, and neither would I.

"Christine," he said gently as if I were porcelain a touch away from shattering. "I love you."

An echo of those words resonated in my inner ear. Another voice, an angel's voice, confiding their letters like a deep, dark secret, and I carried the weight of their guilt on my shoulders. Love… Why did either of them love me? I was unworthy to have two hearts committed to me when mine was too weak to feel its own beat.

I did not reply, holding words upon a tied tongue, sure that if I spoke, all I would be able to say was 'farewell'. Intuition would answer for me, intuition I was no longer silencing. Intuition _knew_ without doubt that this would be the last time I looked into those kind eyes and saw the reflection of what I _wanted_ to _want_. It was safe in those blue depths, warm and peaceful, the perfect place to lay my head down and finally rest, …but it wasn't meant to be mine.

Tears I could not contain rimmed my eyes. He'd attribute them to the traumas we'd barely survived; I knew better. I didn't cry for the scars we now bore together; I cried for the new ones I would inflict and be unable to assuage. I was going to break poor Raoul's heart, and I could do nothing to stop a fate in motion. I'd hurt him, destroy his pure love, and grant more scars, and I hated the guilt that already arrived. Why was I so good at causing pain?

"Oh, Christine," Raoul crooned, and one smooth, elegant hand brushed tears from my cheek. Without a thought, I clasped that hand and held it in place against my face, wishing I could engrave memory into skin.

"Christine…" He attempted a fond smile, but perhaps he suspected something as well, something askew in our set plan of life because I saw the quickest shadow before he drew away and tenderly bid, "Go on up to bed, and in the morning, all will be right again. I promise it."

I nodded, dull and empty, my fingers missing the feel of his skin and curling instead in the crumpled material of a tarnished wedding gown. _Erik's_ wedding gown, not _Raoul's_, and once again, intuition whispered that fact meant something.

One last look was given to my childhood dream. Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny, beneath the title was a good man with a good heart that I prayed he'd give to someone else someday. _Dear God, let him forget me; let him love again and be loved in return_. He deserved it, especially after all I had put him through. He deserved love.

As I turned away and headed up the staircase, I felt alone and independent for the first time. I knew such uplifted strength would be short-lived, but for that brief abeyance, I had no one tied at my side. I straightened my shoulders and desperately tried to believe _this_ could be me. Even when Erik came, as I was doubtless he would, _this_ could be the girl he found. I didn't have to falter beneath any man ever again… I _wanted_ this courage, but I was uncertain I could carry it. No, …once a mismatched gaze had me in its color scheme again, I felt sure I would crack and fall back to docile and meek. That girl couldn't love. She was too weak to love; if I wanted to love, I had to learn to be strong. Strength would be an asset for what was to come.

The wedding gown became a tattered pile of material on the carpet of my bedroom. I didn't bother to conceal it from maids who would eventually pry and gossip. Why bother? Those who worked at the de Chagny mansion weren't fond of me, calling me a usurper into the role of aristocrat. As far as they were concerned, I was below their stature, and an unexplained wedding gown, torn and smudged from a night of chasing ghosts in the dark was the least of my concerns.

As I prepared a hot bath, desperate to rid myself of the residual remnants I felt yet never saw upon my skin, I paused before the vanity mirror and stared in the haze of apathy.

There were marks. Bruises forming on my upper arms, ugly, purple, and stark against the pale pallor of my flesh. Bruises… And as I touched one with a tentative finger, I sought to recall their inception, fighting through layers of memories that were gelled in shock and numbness. How had this night gone so wrong…?

Erik singing his duet with me on the stage, my hand stealing his mask and revealing him to an audience full of leering stares, being carried off back to the depths, Raoul my rescuer hanging by a noose, an ultimatum laid at my feet, a kiss that surprised every person who witnessed it. As the images flashed in fragmented shards, tears filled my eyes again. I scolded their arrival because I was unsure why I was crying. Their shimmering paths along my cheeks stung and reminded me that I could feign strength as I liked, but I was still a coward.

Bruises… Erik had gripped me ferociously enough to leave bruises, and yet I did not dub them as repellent and heinous, further proof of a monster. I saw desperation in their design. He had fought to make me see reality, clutching me in his frustrated hands and penetrating my soul with his fierce stare. Bruises were the lingering consequence of denial; their presence reminded me how long I had chosen to live in a fairytale that didn't even exist. I had been the one to denounce reality at every turn. _Mark me and make me remember the truth_.

With a heavy heart and equally heavy thoughts, I soaked until I was pink and bruises were no longer a consideration. Then curling into my softest nightdress, I burrowed beneath blankets and prayed to sleep until the nightmare was over and the dream returned.

Perhaps God was listening…

I was so tired that my lids couldn't refrain from drooping, but one last view hinted at a shadow against my balcony's curtains, the faintest silhouette. I fell asleep certain that the dream had come to take me away. I never fought it. Why fight fate? And intuition whispered in my ear that it had been right just before sleep carried me away. 

* * *

><p>I don't remember dreaming that night, not the images floating through subconscious even though sense insisted they must have come and gone. I only remember feeling warm and safe, content in a strange way I hadn't known in months. Perhaps when one finally conceded and followed fate instead of struggling against it, the soul found its peace.<p>

As sleep let me go and returned me to my body, I made no motion, only eyelids fluttering open to survey my surroundings and learn what my intuition already knew. I was no longer in my bedroom at the de Chagny estate, …but I wasn't in my bed in the house beneath the opera either.

Confusion creased my brow as I abruptly sat up and scanned the small quarters with my first twinge of apprehension. Wood-paneled walls on all sides, meager furnishings of the large bed, an armoire and trunk, and a table and chairs. Nothing recognized, nothing to give comfort, and my unease only intensified to feel a gentle sway and lack of stability beneath me. A _boat_?

"Good. You're finally awake."

A voice I expected and knew no surprise to hear. It was the one familiar detail in a sea of foreign novelty. I clung to it with urgency as I darted my fearful gaze to Erik's observing presence. He was a shadow crouched in the far corner, and I wondered how long he'd dallied in that spot watching me sleep. It was disconcerting, considering the table and chairs were feet away. He chose shadows and lurking like a phantom; I should have anticipated as much.

Unfurling from the corner's alcove as if blooming from the darkness, he transformed from silhouette to Opera Ghost in his masked glory. Formal attire; was he ever without such pristine precision from his perfectly-arranged tie to the starched lay of his collar and onward to the grace of motion in every limb and feature? He was the constant contradiction. Flawless in every detail he could control, and the opposite in the ones he couldn't as the mask taunted me and told secrets I already knew. I had never met a man so elegant and yet so damaged.

Shaking myself free of mismatched eyes that sucked me into their blue and green vortex, I stammered, "Where…where have you taken me?"

Arrogant, seemingly detached, he strode to my bedside, posture defiant and poised as he insisted, "We are on a boat, but I presumed that was obvious. …No surprise, Christine. I'd expected at least a mediocre battle of wills, but…you are relatively calm and unmoved. This is no dream, you know? This is reality."

I nodded as I continued to watch him. "I know that, Erik. I am not fool enough to confuse dream with reality, …not anymore."

He seemed intrigued by my lack of protest, and stepping about the foot of the bed with eyes that always gauged me in their spheres, he stated plainly what I'd already concluded, "I took you from the Vicomte's guarded presence, carried you off, abducted you from your innocent bed. Still no fear? …I have yet to see a single valid emotion. Or is that your new ploy? Play along and pray that will win your freedom? It won't work. We are far from the mainland and your Vicomte's loyal rescue. This time I took no chances."

Erik leaned across the foot of the bed, summing me up in his stare, but I gave away nothing. Perhaps strength could thrive if walls protected it this time. I showed no fear, no hesitation, nothing but acceptance. Erik's presence had been expected; perhaps being on the sea was unfathomed, but…one kiss had insisted our story couldn't culminate in the opera's catacombs. Erik wouldn't understand, but I knew a kiss had inspired hope in a man who had suffered his lifetime without it. Hope had kept our story from closing its cover, and hope had abducted me from the Vicomte. Hope breathed in this small room, and I couldn't fight against something so pure.

I noted Erik's frustration as he sought to decipher me and couldn't find a way within my chosen boundaries, and leaning nearer still, he set fisted hands upon the mattress, forcing us eye to eye. It always startled me how far his stare could extend, reaching beyond the limits of a mask and probing as if he sought a glimpse of my innermost soul. No one had ever looked so deep.

"What game are you playing?" he demanded with a sneer.

I refused to cower beneath his hinted temper, holding his gaze with never even a blink to break it. The omnipotent Opera Ghost, but I'd had him in my hands once before. I'd broken the epithet and found the vulnerable being beneath its shield. I knew what lay inside, and that knowledge kept me unwavering. Rage was a persona as much as phantom; it was a veneer to hide behind. Another truth learned in a kiss.

With a growl of annoyance, he gave up before I did, flipping about and stalking a fitful pace about the small quarters. "Well, let us see how you favor your new reality. We are on a voyage to America and a fresh start."

"America…?" Surprise finally granted him the satisfaction of an appearance, but I couldn't contain it. America was further than I'd anticipated.

With a smirk, he faced me again and flatly stated, "An ocean away seemed a suitable distance to escape our past. I sincerely doubt the Vicomte will pursue more than a country or two before he gives up and forgets about you. With so many eager for his affection and willing to console his broken heart, it won't take long for him to dub your replacement. He isn't the sort to mourn the loss of one woman when so many others exist. And if by some odd happenstance, he _should_ come across us someday, I have faith that my loving _wife_ will stand by my side."

"…Wife," I breathed the word but only to test it on my lips. Erik's intentions had been made with a wedding gown; surprise existed merely to speak the word aloud and seek to apply it to my sense of self. Wife… I was going to be _Erik's wife_.

"I can offer ultimatums again if I must," he pushed cruelly onward and made me forget that his description included 'loving' when love and ultimatums seemed opposites. "But I have a suspicion that if the Vicomte cannot accept defeat and seeks our destination, by the time he finds us, you as my _devoted_ wife will be indisposed and swollen with _my_ child. I cannot think he will still want you knowing that I have already taken liberties and laid eternal proof."

My breath caught in my lungs as reality struck cold and harsh. A husband, a child, a foreign country. It was too much to accept at one time and left me to rub aching temples and show the weakness I'd been seeking to abolish.

"Had you hoped I'd remain your pathetic, docile worshipper?" he taunted, but I heard pain beneath the mockery. Now I knew how to look for it and how to seek the truths he never wanted to display, and yet I gave him nothing to allay his hurt. "You made a choice, Christine, and I decided to hold you to it. You cannot expect to go about without consequences for your actions. You _chose_ me, and I believed it was understood what that meant: a real marriage. I will no longer waste my time attempting to woo your heart and falling over myself to please you. It is futile when the things I cannot change are what keep you unwilling. My face, my sins. I could be your reverent slave, and such details would always stand between hearts. So I will take what you freely gave. Marriage makes you _mine_, undoubted and unquestioned. And the rest…well, perhaps in time, such blessings may come, and if not, it doesn't matter. Many marriages exist and thrive without love at their base. It is not a requirement."

I had a suspicion that he did not believe his own words. He wanted _love_; he'd settle for marriage because a kiss had given him hope. And I… Well, I had made the choice and trapped in a ship's cabin in a world of our own design, I knew I had to abide by it. There was no alternative.

"Get dressed," he suddenly snapped when I gave no reply and still would not meet his gaze. "I have arrangements made and awaiting fulfillment. The captain on this ship is licensed to perform marriage ceremonies. He is under the impression that we are eager to wed and escape on our honeymoon trip. I caution you not to speak otherwise. It is not proper for unwed individuals to inhabit a room together, and considering the rest of the crew are crude and vulgar sailors who would be more than willing for time alone with the sole female onboard, I urge your cooperation for your own welfare. It is a long journey to America, and without the protection of a legal marriage, it would not be very safe for _you_, my innocent, little bride."

I was tempted to ask what made it safe for a _masked man_, but bit my tongue and watched him leave, hearing the final click of a lock to insist trust was as unrealistic as escape. Trapped on a boat full of sailors in the middle of the ocean and about to let coercion become marriage.

With a concluding huff, I rose from the bed, testing my balance on a floor that refused to stay stable as I stumbled to the armoire. It was of little surprise that its cabinet was packed with my things from Erik's home: gowns, undergarments, accessories. Such revelations made it obvious that Erik had put this plan into motion no more than minutes after I'd abandoned him in the underground. …Or perhaps this had been his plan all along, and letting us go was not merciful so much as a need to rid us of the Vicomte's presence. I preferred to think a kiss sparked something within him, but…as he said, he was holding me to my choice. In that regard, the kiss was irrelevant.

A wedding gown was most likely still a haphazard pile at the Vicomte's mansion, so I chose the next best thing. One of the most beautiful gowns in the wardrobe, petal pink with eyelet trim. It hugged to the curves of my body as if it had been made just for me. I added a matching ribbon and tied half my curls back, smoothing their disheveled mass with fingers that would not quit their tremble. But…I was about to become a wife; trembling could not be controlled.

With nothing to do but wait, I paced anxiously along the wooden floor, learning with every step how to bear the undulation of unceasing waves. Weeks upon the sea… I had minimal experience on sailing vessels, barely recalling the journey I'd taken as a child from Sweden. I quickly realized I didn't like the feeling of being gently rocked back and forth. It didn't become less noticeable as I'd hoped, and though I grew accustomed to walking a straight path without being jostled, I was afraid that if I sat down, I'd forget and have to learn balance all over again. As such, I kept on my feet.

Minutes dragged by, and I felt each second crawling its way across my skin as my nerves twisted in my stomach. I couldn't help it. About to become a bride, and my groom was the former Opera Ghost. …A murderer, that was a fact I often chose to forget. Erik had taken lives; people who crossed him met their doom. I trusted him not to hurt me, but…then again, I did wear his bruises, didn't I?

_Click_. I nearly leapt out of my skin as the door was opened. Desperate for calm, I watched my about-to-be husband enter the room with two men, both dirty and haggard as if time spent at sea was more prevalent than time spent amongst people. They eyed Erik at every breath, and I admired Erik's stoicism, his persona in place and unshaken. But as they entered our small quarters, all attention shifted to me, and I suddenly felt ridiculous and exposed in my best gown.

Surprise went unhidden on tanned, unshaven faces, cold eyes leering and making me wrap protective arms about my waist. It was obvious they'd been expecting an unattractive woman, perhaps a street urchin or decrepit old lady desperate for male company, and I wondered what sort of conclusions had been drawn in regards to Erik's mask. Enough to insist he could not have a young and pretty girl eager to be his wife. If anything, their unqualified cruelty made me more adamant in my intentions.

Noticing the sailors' incessant ogling, Erik gave a growl, fierce enough to shake all three of us and darted between my silhouette and their presence. "Get on with the task I paid you for and get out! I will not stand to have my bride demeaned in this manner."

My mind flashed the number of times I'd worn far less layers onstage and the suggestive stares from patrons and even cast mates. Erik had never said a word against it, and I'd always believed it was because of the art, that he understood the sacrifices of performers, but now to feel the tension in the air and fix my gaze on the tightened muscles of his back, I wondered if it had been the same in my ballerina days. As far as he was concerned, I was _his_, and no man was allowed a glance.

I could not discredit his possessiveness when I was loath to endure the sailors' blatant lust. I had an impulse to curl tight to Erik's back and press my forehead to his shoulder, instincts I reluctantly denied and fought to stand firm on my own two feet.

"All right," one of the sailors called. "Let's get on with it."

As a ceremony, it was deficient. Not much beyond the basic vows, and though I stood before Erik and felt his eyes upon me, I fixed my focus to the wooden floor and gave no more than the required responses. In the back of my mind was flickering disappointment with a wedding in its broadest definition. Childhood fantasies had included a steepled church and bouquets of flowers, a special commemoration of love. Everything about this felt cold.

A ring to complete a vow, and I recognized the band as the same one Erik had presented me on the stage the night before. His ring. I took it then as I did now and slid it onto my finger beneath his attentive eye. I still trembled, and I knew he noticed.

As the bristly sailor announced us husband and wife, I cast a wary glance to all observing. The sailors were still taking every opportunity to regard my pink-encased curves, but as an uncomfortable moment dragged by, they looked between the two of us with expectant uncertainty.

Ah, a kiss. A kiss was tradition to solder vows into place; yet again, it all came down to a kiss. I lifted my trepidation to my unusually awkward groom, and I glimpsed fear where no one else would. They would look and see the pristine and polished Opera Ghost, apathetic to the idea of a kiss, perhaps considering himself above such mundane contact. I looked and saw a shy and timid heart and a man who could not bestow even that flippant token when a mask stood in the way and covered half his mouth.

But our audience was waiting and expecting said kiss, and so I adopted my own persona. Stage Christine, the girl who was unafraid and courageous, who blossomed brighter under attention. As the ideal actress, I managed a smile and picked up the spot of forgotten lines. I raised on tiptoe, and without a single hesitation, I pressed my lips to his one exposed cheek, holding them against chilled flesh and letting his cells taint me and leave their invisible brand. My husband… I couldn't run from fate anymore, and in a way, my soul was relieved.

As I slowly drew away and met mismatched eyes, I glimpsed gratitude in a hasty breath before he took up the arrogant guise again and flipped in rage to our inquisitive audience.

"Get out," he coldly commanded. "Your job is done, and you have sufficient compensation to leave us be. I expect no unplanned interruptions. My wife and I require privacy."

I ducked my head with his words, unsure what was acceptable to feel. I knew what _privacy _meant now that vows held us as one, but…was it wrong to have flickers of anticipation in the midst of trepidation? I'd spent so long afraid to be in this place, but now the choice was done and I had only the future spread before me. I could accept it or fight it, but the vow made it mine.

I felt the lingering glares of the sailors before Erik ushered them out, and as the lock clicked into place, I was finally able to draw a deep breath. …It was the only inhalation that managed to pass my lips.

Hands groped for me, catching my waist and pulling me to his body, his hoarse gasps echoing in the air between us. Did he mean to do this _now_ and in such a rough manner? …I was afraid. I couldn't help it, but his fingertips dug into my hips, jerking firm until I could feel his hardness and its ache against me, insisting what it wanted.

His eyes blazed an inferno of fire, and while one hand kept me to him, the other quickly tore the mask away. I had no chance to look or contemplate that face. Misshapen lips were upon mine, kissing hard and bruising, their bloated arches tensed as if desperate to _feel_ this kiss and be consumed.

I lost a whimper in the second I gulped a breath, the second before his tongue delved deep and tasted. Compared to the sweet kisses I'd granted in the catacombs, this was dark poison, and I felt its assault seep within me and attack with a power I could not fight.

Erik's grasping hands forced me back against one wooden wall and pinned me to its stability as my head swam as incessantly as the waves beneath the boat. I didn't know what to do or how to respond. Should I touch him? Should I be matching his aggressive fervency? Should I simply permit? I was as terrified as I was intrigued. This was…new. Every sensation pummeled in a brutal intensity that made my knees quake.

His mouth was devouring, demanding what I'd always refused to give, and his tongue probed and sought to speak desire in its desperation. I wanted to cry. It was too much at once, and I couldn't find sanity when my attention was fixed to every hard plane of his body against mine. Desire meant releasing sense and thought, and I was yet apprehensive to let go. Even as I felt shaken to my core and the resonating echoes through my inexperienced body, I held back and quivered with hands that splayed to the wall behind me and never touched, never held in return.

My eyes fluttered open, and I dared to look at the face against mine. Scars, damage, every discrepancy creased from more than ugliness. He wanted me; it was written upon every feature, and the ferocious motion of his bloated lips fascinated me.

A kiss ended as abruptly as it had begun, and as he forced his lips to my cheek and temple, a low moan escaped their seam and teased my ears like a melody. Words didn't exist; there was only feeling. He arched his body against mine, and I was trapped between its hard wall and the wooden one behind me, never allowed enough room to fill suffocated lungs. I managed shallow gasps and trembled violently as he thrust his erection firmly against my layers as if threatening to free it should I refuse. …I wasn't going to refuse.

A vicious growl tore from his angel's voice, and he suddenly jerked away, leaving me to sag and clutch the wall for support as I watched his aggression with wide eyes.

"Erik," I weakly called. I had never been equipped at calming his temper. The right words were never mine, and even now with a marriage between us, I couldn't find the letters and simply murmured, "What's wrong? I thought…"

"That I would take you?" he snapped, and flipping about, he glared at me and put the monstrosity of his face vividly on display. It was an ugly nightmare when anger marred its surface. I recalled its vision that last night underground when it had been full of sorrow and love. Then it had been almost beautiful.

"We…we're married, and now…," I awkwardly stammered, feeling my cheeks flame with a blush. "I mean…I'm yours."

"You are!" he agreed in a vicious hiss. "You're _mine_! _Mine_, Christine, by eyes of law and God, and every bone in my body is _begging_ me to take you to my bed and finally extinguish the fire in my veins. You'd be willing; you have no choice. But…damn you! I could have you spread to my every whim right now, and it wouldn't be enough!"

I shuddered with his words and every crude implication, and my blush seared from the inside out and choked any reply I could have made. So I simply watched him with nervous eyes and saw him fist his hands and fight an internal battle for control. I didn't understand why.

Leaning so close that he left me nowhere to look but his distorted face with its every taut line, he hissed beneath his breath, "I will not take you until you learn to love me…and until I learn to forgive you."

His blame struck to my core with inspired guilt. …Forgive. And for the first time, I glimpsed the true damage I had spent months inflicting. Denying him at every chance, running from him as if he'd destroy me, cursing him in cruel insults to the Vicomte; I had made the broken creature before me and equally the madman who'd posed ultimatums that last night underground. I had shaped him into existence with every rejection and denial. He'd thought better of me, and I'd disappointed him and gave him reason for sins with my selfishness.

The regret twisted my heart and only stabbed deeper to watch him turn away and replace his mask, to watch him build walls and know he had every right. How foolish to think marriage would fix every mistake and mend broken places! I called myself naïve and slowly wandered to the bed, sitting numbly on its edge and looking anywhere but at my new husband. No, I let him return to the shadowed corner and live in his own regrets and turned away so he wouldn't see me cry silent tears.

If I concluded I'd found reality after a kiss in the catacombs, I was sorely wrong. _Here_ was reality, in this small room with my damaged husband. Reality was consequences and penance. It was the punishment of being denied a heart I already knew was mine. As he said, he needed to learn to forgive me, but I was terrified forgiveness was impossible, that the destruction was permanent, that I'd squandered my own destiny with my selfish cruelty. Oh God, what had I done…?


	2. Chapter 2

Hello, people! Happy Valentines Day weekend! I will be getting a heart-shaped pizza today to celebrate and watching the Phantom concert! Appropriate, I would say! :) Anyway, here is chapter two! Enjoy! 

Chapter Two

Distance was impossible in such tight quarters, but silence had its own miles. How odd to be physically so close to a person and never so far away. Erik stayed in his chosen corner and its shadows, and I had little but masochism for company.

Our room had no windows and no clocks to insist time's passage. Erik likely had a pocket watch in his jacket or among his things, but I was terrified to ask and know more spite, determined to let him be the one to break quiet's chasm.

He never had to. A tentative knock at the door spoke more than words, and as I nervously got to my feet and watched with anxiousness I could not deny, the Opera Ghost unraveled from the shadows and went to answer.

Another sailor, but this one had a tray that he offered to Erik even as his attention pushed beyond and focused on me. I shifted uncomfortably on my feet as Erik cast me a quick glance laced in a hatred I wasn't certain was for me or for the audacious sailor. I longed to beg forgiveness because I knew it hurt him. I had such a penchant for causing pain. Even without words! It was an unwanted talent.

Threats were in a deadly glare from the stark mask as Erik abruptly closed our visitor out and locked the door again. I felt the power behind a look alone as it averted to me, cold and unqualified before he set the tray on the table and gestured with fisted hands.

"Supper. Eat something."

Merely the mention of food reminded me that I hadn't eaten a thing since before the performance the previous night, and surpassing my heavy head, my stomach tightened in its own reply. I moved in tentative steps to the table, noting that Erik watched all the while with that bitter sadness in his stare.

"I…I'm sorry," I felt compelled to utter, anything for peace.

"For what, Christine? Being beautiful?" The compliment felt like an insult, and I suddenly wished to be ugly if only to gain a kinder tone. "It isn't your fault that you shine so brilliantly and call unwanted attention. The Vicomte, the patrons, the sailors. I feel I will always have to vie to keep you, marriage or not. It makes me pointlessly wish I were blessed with some ounce of handsomeness to gain a fighting chance that doesn't include only violence. But…well, killing to keep you is more sufficient, I suppose."

I knew he meant it but gave no more than a frown as I took a seat at our small table. He sat across, studying me at every second, and pushed the tray before me with another gesture.

"And do you not intend to eat?" I posed back, but it had never been any different. He didn't favor eating in my presence, needing to remove the mask. Considering all we'd endured and the fact that we were confined together without the luxury of space, I considered the idea ridiculous.

"Later perhaps," he replied, and I did not argue against his obstinacy. It was a waste of breath. He'd rather take off the mask when I was asleep and eat alone despite the fact that he'd just willingly exposed that face to kiss me. But that was Erik; I was unsure how to make him change.

…Or maybe he simply had an inclination what 'supper' meant. My nose crinkled in revulsion with first glance. I could devise no title for what had been thrown on the tray, unsure if it could even be termed 'food'. Grey and indecipherable, I poked it with a fork and immediately changed my mind. The only thing edible was a chunk of bread. I broke off a piece with nimble fingers and yet found it stale as I reluctantly chewed.

One shared look showed Erik matching my expression, and I almost smiled to find something other than hurt on that masked face. 'That is appalling," he concluded with an aggravated huff. "I know this is no luxury liner, but _decent_ meals are not privileges, considering what I paid for passage."

I stifled an odd urge to laugh. The almighty Opera Ghost reduced to arguing over the dinner menu!

"I'd suggest sending a threatening note, but there's no anonymity at sea," I dared to tease. "Signing it 'OG' would have them on our doorstep."

Erik seemed surprised with my taunting, staggering an uncertain moment and simply gaping as if he'd forgotten he knew how to retort before he attempted to tease back. "The Opera Ghost rarely had to lift a finger beyond the occasional accident to keep them in line. But on a ship…well, it looks like I may not have a choice."

"No anonymity," I repeated as a warning, but beneath it, I arched my brows with a continued playfulness that amused him. "You can't drop masts like scenery on the stage, OG, and making sailors croak like frogs will not have the same impact that it did on La Carlotta."

He chuckled! And it was so unexpected that it scared us both! Collecting his pretense again, he replied, "No accidents. I will not risk having an entire crew against us with nowhere to run. I cannot afford to be outnumbered and trapped with _you_ to take care of. I only mean that I will have to arrange better food for us."

"How?" I questioned doubtfully. "Unless you intend to _cook_, I can't think we will win anything better."

He didn't answer, but I saw that mischievous twinkle in his eyes. How long had it been since I'd last born witness to it? It insisted that I'd given him a challenge, and he already knew how to overcome it. In days past, that meant gaining me leading roles in dishonest ways. Now…well, I had little idea what he planned but was willing to agree considering hunger had become nausea in one glance at our offering. Let him do what he must because I couldn't fathom weeks without a meal.

"At least eat the bread," he asserted, "and I will have something edible for you by first light."

"But what about you?" I asked, obviously more concerned for his well-being than he was. I was versed in Erik's tendencies and behaviors and knew that though he might go spans without food when music was his sole impetus and driving force, when he did eat, it was only the best of everything, as if scraps were an insult.

"Eat," he commanded in a tone that allowed no argument, and though the bread was bland and stale, I obeyed with a nod of gratitude.

As I chewed, feeling Erik's stare upon me all the while, I chose words with care, terrified to shatter the tentative bridge we were currently treading upon. "This is…a cargo ship, isn't it?"

He paused to answer, trailing mismatched colors over my features as if seeking an ulterior motive that I knew I did not have. "Yes, …it seemed the safer way to travel. Being aboard a luxury liner would have brought too much attention and suspicion."

"And…the sailors aboard allowed this because you paid them?"

More suspicion and a glare before he replied matter-of-factly, "Half. I am no fool. I don't trust anyone, let alone a boat full of miscreant men. But let them try mutiny against us; I'll toss their payment overboard and strangle the life out of each and every one. Is that what you wanted to hear? Are my threats proof that I'm still a monster or that I would protect you no matter what they put in our path?"

I bit my lip and pondered. Murderous tendencies a step away, and I _should_ denounce them, but one consideration of every unsolicited stare from our current crewmates, and I nodded my trust and softly replied, "Angel to all ends."

"And husband," he added as if such a term meant more. When so far it had only included one rough kiss, I favored _angel_. "Any husband is responsible for his wife's welfare."

I shook my head with a hinted smile. "It's beyond protection. I'm _yours_, and by your terms, that means _no one _has a right for even a look."

"You smile as if that pleases you," he flatly stated. "The same possessiveness you once condemned when it was against the Vicomte's interference, and now it is acceptable?"

"…It's different now," I concluded with a small shrug, pretending to concentrate on the last bit of bread between my suddenly anxious fingers. I idly ripped it into miniscule pieces if only to keep Erik from noticing how my hands shook.

"A vow justifies jealousy?" he pushed. "Do you not recall the _extent_ of my jealousy? How often did I place death threats on your darling Vicomte for single touches? He touched you like you were his _without_ a vow, and you _abhorred_ my jealousy. But now it is allowed under the title of marriage?"

The memories were unpleasant, and I preferred to forget them, insisting, "Please don't speak of the Vicomte now. You _won_. I'm here with you, and Raoul is back in Paris alone. He should not be a thought any longer."

"Not a…not a thought?" he stuttered, and I caught sight of his temper as he rose and stalked a furious pace before the table, unable to bear such tension in one fixed place. I'd seen him take out his rage on precious objects, shattering to pieces, even punching a wall once, and now with little in our cabin to bear the brunt of his internal inferno, I knew a twinge of worry.

"Erik," I called gently, dropping the crumbled bread upon the table and shrinking back in my chair.

"Yes," he spat as he faced me and slammed fists to the table top between us. "Say _my_ name. _Mine_. Your husband. Not precious Raoul and his flawless perfection. You speak to me of forgetting him, but how can I possibly when my _wife_ never will? He will _always_ breathe between us, no matter what. _He_ was the reason I had to go to such extremes to keep you, the impetus for leaving our home, the instigator to my sins. _He_ carved a _monster_, and by believing him, you gave it life. And yes, I can stake my claim and my victory through a marriage vow, but I cannot steal his image from you. I cannot burn evidence of his existence in our lives; I cannot take your head in my palms and squeeze the memories out of your mind!"

His hands were taut and tense, held as threats before him, and I shuddered. I couldn't help it. My heart believed he would never lay a cruel hand on me, but…bruises muttered otherwise.

"Erik, …stop please," I softly whispered, my wide eyes fixed to hands pulsing with a rage so thick that they quaked through every joint. He had insisted he needed to learn to forgive me, and I wasn't sure he could when memory taunted him more than reality. He would never forget.

He showed me anger, but I saw pain as he flipped about and stalked to the trunk at the foot of the bed. Fierce hands yanked it open on its hinges, and though I fought for a glimpse of what was inside, I was unsuccessful until the first whines of a violin resounded through the room. Well, of course! I should have known he wouldn't be able to let go of the music, even considering our current restrictions.

He turned his back to me, but the violin was held at perfect position as the bow worked rapidly over the strings. He hadn't bothered to tune it before his impromptu concerto, and I knew him well enough to be certain that was done with calculation. That bit of discrepancy in pitch grated on both our nerves and made beautiful music hint at ugly dissonance.

I didn't move from my chair, dropping my head into my hands and letting the ferocity of his playing engulf and suffocate my lungs. I had a fleeting thought that I hoped he'd also paid the crew for inflicted noise when undoubtedly, the violin's serenade carried through walls and doors all over the ship. Musicians would appreciate the talent in spite of the poor tuning, but burly sailors were sure only to be annoyed.

Peeking between my fingers, I fixed my stare to the lines of his back, making him into a violinist's silhouette and nothing more. Without the mask in my view to proclaim otherwise, he could be nothing but a virtuoso. Not the Opera Ghost, not a makeshift angel, not my husband. I watched his fingers move rapidly, clawing at the violin's throat with precision and skill as the bow flew back and forth and made the instrument sing and cry at the same time.

I had to wonder if the violin's presence was deliberate. Sense argued that a piano would not be feasible on a ship, and Erik would not sacrifice the music for weeks at sea when it was his primary love and obsession. But…he knew the significance a violin held to me. My father's instrument of choice. I possessed thousands of memories of my father playing for me as a child and the tugged heartstrings that went along with them.

It was just like Erik to play ironic contradictions. He wanted with everything he was for me to _forget_ Raoul, and yet he wanted me to _remember_ my father and the Angel of Music. I saw it as a deception, and I wondered if he knew the game he was playing. This time, however, I was determined not to be so gullible. I looked and refused to see anything but truth. This was a man before me, …my husband by vows and a connection I'd never been able to deny. He wasn't an angel, not a gift from my father in the grave. He was only a man with a heart so easily broken. He'd never given that heart to anyone but me, and I had chipped away at it more times than I could count. I'd made miniature fractures that could not fuse together again until we _both_ healed. It was a reality neither of us wanted to admit.

The music played on, and I was given little to do but listen. I felt every pitch seep into my bones and rattle their framework. His music always had such an effect. Never was I as touched as when he created music. Not even hands and wanting fingers could reach as deeply within as lyrical melodies and thick harmonies produced by his virtuosic talent.

Every note tingled the surface of my skin and flashed memories in my mind of a rough kiss pinned to a wall. Sense wanted me to condemn such behavior. He'd been forceful, almost cruel in the taking, but…guilt lit my cheeks in heated reds as I revealed only to my innermost soul that I'd thrilled in that kiss. I wanted it again and more! I cursed myself and was ashamed by every brazen implication. Desire tainting the surface of my tongue, and I yearned for another taste. For all the violence in his attempt, I did not blame or condemn; I _ached_! It felt like a degradation. I was a good, moral girl, and such rampant lust should frighten me. It _did_ frighten me! But like temptation, I fell to its power and burned inside with a craving that growled like hunger.

On the wings of my inappropriate thoughts, I ran heavy eyes along the planes and muscles of Erik's back, admiring his stature, his physique, his elegant build…and then his hands. I mesmerized myself on their motion; they were not gentle, carrying too much tension for delicacy. They were adamant and determined, _confident_ and yet never cruel upon the fine strings. They caressed with a precision that never faltered, the bow in a rapid motion across the violin's neck, and I _shivered_. The tremble raced my limbs, …limbs that longed to take the place of a string instrument and be touched in such an overwhelming manner. I wanted that confidence, that certainty; I wanted the aggression that had been hinted in a kiss. Desire had been worthy of fear and running once before, and now with marriage as my excuse, I couldn't run. The choice was out of my control; I had to face passion's every contour and curve, and I was eager to succumb.

When the music finally ceased, so did my improper considerations. I buried them beneath a blush and quiver and regarded Erik with wide, anxious eyes when he finally glanced at me. His unease had escaped in the music, and guilt came on its heels. Setting the violin aside with hands I saw shake and lose their adamancy, he took tentative steps toward me, seeming over and over again like he would speak and yet wordless.

As he halted before my chair, fixing me in that mismatched gaze, he suddenly slid to his knees at my feet, crouching low and penitent. He had said he would no longer be the pathetic heart tread upon with my every step, and yet beneath every layer of feigned apathy, he was just as terrified as ever to lose my affections. He trembled and shivered, no longer poised and stoic as he had been with the violin as his victim. I almost wished things were otherwise and that instead of falling to fear, he kept a piece of that confident façade. One of us needed to pick up the strength, and we were both too afraid of it.

"Christine," he spoke in hushed whispers, and that voice raced an undeniable shudder down my spine. "Forgive me for my cruelty. You're right. The past is irrelevant. You are _my_ wife, and even if you regret, it is too late to change anything."

"Regret?" I hadn't considered such an emotion was allowed. I regretted things I felt guilt for; marrying Erik was not one of them.

"I must accept the fact that I can't control your thoughts," he concluded, shaking a despairing head. "You may recall the Vicomte and wish that _he_ were your husband, but the fact remains unchanged. Wishing doesn't make it different, and I must be satisfied with that. Perhaps I'll never have your heart solely as mine, but I will teach myself to settle for a marriage vow and its permanent structure instead."

I didn't protest even if my heart shouted within my ribcage. It didn't seem right: a marriage without a heartbeat. A voice within insisted back that I wouldn't have made vows if I were still bound to Raoul and the innocent sense of love we'd indulged. Marrying one man but wishing for another? That sounded like a _sin_.

"Erik," I beseeched, but words like 'love' were stuck in my throat. I couldn't speak what I didn't know. Maybe I loved, or maybe I didn't know what _love_ truly was. Was it love's inspiration that urged me to touch him as solace? Or was that only human compassion? It seemed impossible to tell the difference, and so I kept still and touched with my gaze alone. Intangible touch. I caressed his masked face with my stare and hoped he felt it. "I made a choice, and my choice was you. _You_ are my husband. I have no regret."

"You need not lie, Christine. I have no intention of pursuing truths tonight. It has been a trying day; we have both been burdened in trauma and change. Perhaps it would be best to simply go to bed and give it an end."

I could not halt a rush of anxiety with a glance at the single, large bed, but I sought to hide any emotion that would have resulted in more angered outbursts and nodded numb concession. "Let me…let me just change."

Our little room had only one spot of privacy, a miniscule bathroom with little more than a washbasin. For the moment, it sufficed. I closed myself inside and readied for bed with trembling fingers that fumbled every button and clasp. He'd said he would not take me to his bed…not yet, but I had a thrill of anticipation anyway. I was his wife. He could change his mind, and I could offer no valid protest. …And why did I almost hope he succumbed? I did not berate myself for the thought; I was no unattached maiden anymore, and I would be performing my wifely duty. An earlier encounter had me doubtless _he_ wanted such things, and I…I might want them as well.

The bathroom had no mirror. I couldn't look in my own eyes and search for the convicted woman I sought to portray. All I could do was smooth my hands through my curls and will my fingers not to shake, straighten my shoulders, and return to my awaiting husband.

Erik's eyes seared mine in first look, striking my body with a ferocity I was surprised could exist without a real touch. I had chosen the nightdress he had bought me and left the one I'd worn from the Vicomte's mansion crumpled in the armoire's corner. Raoul's had been luxurious and made of the most expensive silks, but Erik's…Erik's was beautiful, dainty, and delicate. Thin cotton, soft on my skin and clingy. It wasn't meant to be worn to others' regard without a wrap, but I hadn't found one brought with my belongings. Without a mirror, I wasn't sure how much showed in shadows through the flimsy material, but the rush of hunger that burst in Erik's gaze gave me a faint idea.

My skin lit in a furious blush; I felt the heat of it seep to my toes and ducked shy eyes, unable to quell the modesty of innocence. But I could practically _feel_ the path his gaze took along the curves of my small frame; gentle, would his hands be that gentle? Or would they touch with the same diligence they'd used upon a violin?

Before I could gather courage and decide how to react, I heard a sharp gasp leave his lips and finally found the need to peek through my lashes. Even the mask could not hide his discontentment, and before I could ask its course, in two strides, he was standing before me. I could feel the radiated heat from his body's closeness and grew dizzy on it, forgetting all else until his hand groped for mine.

"Erik, …what…?"

But he brought my hand out to his inspection and did not waver even as his fingers guided my soft cotton sleeve up the extent of my arm and revealed…bruises. I'd forgotten their presence but now realized they must appear like ink stains beneath the white flimsy material. Their purple impression spoke the entire story of the previous night, and the horror in Erik's gaze as he examined made _me_ feel guilty, as if _I_ should have taken more care to hide their presence.

Self-loathing went unhidden as he dared to lift his free hand and fit his fingers to the exact shape of the mark as if my skin retained a mold of his grip. It was a perfect fit.

"Oh God…," he muttered, despair in creases upon the unmasked side of his face.

"I…I bruise easily." I quickly made the excuse, cursing myself in equaled amounts as the person who'd arranged a bathroom without a mirror. If I'd seen the reflection and known, …I _never_ would have let Erik see.

"How can you justify this?" he demanded in a snap. "I should _never_ hold you tight enough to leave marks. I should treat you with care and delicacy, _never_ the violence that existed last night. Dear God, I truly was out of my wits if I could leave such damage behind."

His fingers outlined the bruise's irregular edges, like a smear of paint upon my skin, and despite his unease, I felt a tingle from every tentative caress. It tickled the surface of my skin and seeped inside its protective cushion to singe. He was seeking penance, acting out of guilt, and yet my reaction was pure longing. How could I contain an ache when his fingers touched me in ways they'd never dared before?

And it was odd. One would assume a touch to an overused appendage like an arm would be neutral and certainly not provocative, but when a touch was granted by _Erik's_ hands, any caress could start a fire. Desire, my mind taunted again. Why could no one else bring such sensations to me? Only Erik. I was relieved that under a marriage vow, I'd never have to deny their existence again and never have to live without them. It shamed me to admit that I _needed_ their temptation. It was an addiction from the very first instant I'd learned my angel was a mortal man. Was it any wonder then that I'd never been able to leave him and completely sever our tie?

His fingers were chilled upon my warm skin, always cold as the catacombs as if too long living belowground had permanently engraved his flesh, but as their tips delicately played upon the center of my bruise, I shivered from anything _but_ cold. A small whimper fell from my lips, a begging without words never to stop, and it was as much a surprise to me as him, betraying everything I yearned to clasp within in one miniscule sound.

Erik watched my every response with uncertainty, as if unable to believe his drawn conclusions. Of course, in his doubtful mind, I couldn't possibly _want_ him! He'd always been unable to take anything at face value, desperate for assurance even when I knew the answer was clear and inarguable. I should have known. I could whimper and cry out, even _scream_ in desire, and his first thought would be disgust.

As his hand fitted over his own imprint again with great care, I lifted mine and fitted my palm to his knuckles, keeping a caress intact. It was such a mediocre attempt at bravery, and yet I trembled from it, my fingers quivering as they molded to the backs of his and dug taut tips into his joints.

"You don't always touch me with violence in your hands," I softly confided. "Now…you're gentle, but you touch me as if you're unworthy, as if your touch could break me into pieces."

"Can't it?" he posed and yet curved his fingers with my arm, clasping without brutality. "I am not versed in gentle touches. I've been acquainted with violence too long. I have to recall at every second that you are precious to me." His mismatched stare bore into me with emotions so heavy that I gasped a breath beneath their weight as he continued, "I _am_ unworthy to stand in this place and be called your husband. But I've never had an epithet I want to measure up to so much. Opera Ghost, phantom, monster, even angel, all fall short to _husband_. Every one required sins to keep it intact, but _husband_…that is only blessings. I refuse to take such a position for granted, and I vow never to put another cruelly laid mark on your body."

He released my bruises, and they ached anew. They longed for Erik's touch as if it healed, but before I could find a voice and make a request, he knelt at my feet as he had earlier. Further penance. I hated being revered and bowed to. I didn't deserve such adoration. I was only a woman and one still so unsure of herself, let alone worthy to hold judgment's rights. He obviously thought otherwise.

"Forgive me my faults," he softly beseeched, and yet as his gaze lifted, it took a languid path up my torso. By the time it met mine, my breath was caught in my throat to glimpse wanting exposed without hindrance. "Christine…"

I shivered but gave no denial as his arms weaved about my waist and drew me closer until he could rest his forehead to my stomach, his masked face firm to my body and leaving me to shudder and quake in reply. My shaking hands were awkward and tentative as they acted. Unaccustomed to being bold, they nervously set atop his narrow shoulders, my fingers finding some stability in his jacket's thick material. Stability? I quickly changed my mind. What stability existed when I felt him tense and waver beneath my palms as unsure as I was?

Daring to push both bravery and limits, I dared to drag one hand to the bare skin of his neck and set my fingertips to his nape. He shuddered against me, and I felt the vibration of his moan against my belly. How strange to hold such control! One would never think a single touch could undo a person, but that was all it seemed to take where Erik was concerned. One gentle caress, and he crumpled in my palms.

Words drifted in and out of my comprehension, but I pieced them together and made my lips form them. "You said you needed to learn to forgive me, and yet you are the one begging _my_ forgiveness."

His face nuzzled my nightdress as he turned and rested his bare cheek to my body. "I suppose we both have sins in need of forgiveness."

"And…if I kneel at your feet and beg your forgiveness, will you grant it? Would that repair the wounds I've caused? Or will it never be enough?"

He chose silence a long breath, rubbing his cheek gently to my stomach as if settling for the caress of my nightdress when fingers meant too much. "We've hurt each other so often," he somberly stated. "Over and over until the good parts faded beneath the bad. …You ran from me at every chance. I can't help but wonder if you're only here now because I gave you no other choice. If I hadn't carried you off and stolen you away, would you be on the verge of marriage to the Vicomte tonight? Would _he_ be in this place, holding you?"

His grip tightened with his words, and yet any anger and jealousy existed under layers of sorrow I did not fully understand. He could insist the Vicomte and our past mattered for nothing, but I knew it always would.

And so I sought to _show_ him and slid nervous fingertips up his nape and into his thin hair, cradling his skull in my palm and clutching him firm to my body. He hissed a difficult breath, and I wondered if my touch caused pain until he leaned firmer into my hold.

"My God, you drive me mad," he muttered, moving his cheek restlessly against my stomach. "I must keep telling myself that the Vicomte will _never_ be in my place, that it's too late and you are _mine_. He will never feel you hold him in such a way, never breathe your scent, never know your softness and your warmth. I've lived in fear of his existence for so long that it is impossible to forget."

"Fear?" I questioned, threading my fingers in his hair and learning a silken texture that delighted with every tickling strand.

"Of course, fear. I was _terrified_ he'd take this before I could, claim you as his and purloin every chance I could possess. He could have _married you_, Christine! _Months_ ago and legally had a right to touch you and hold you, to take you to his bed as _his_ wife." His fingertips dug into the small of my back with stiff fierceness, and though I had a lingering consideration that he might be unwittingly making more marks, I did not stop him. No, I clutched _him_ tighter instead.

"He wanted to," I admitted, refusing sense when it said to keep quiet. "He wanted to marry me six months ago right after the chandelier…," I trailed off, knowing we did not need to recall the incident and its lingering internal scars.

"But…you didn't," he insisted as if needing to state truths and hear them strike the air. "Why didn't you go through with it? You could have, and I would have lost you forever."

He'd stated his own answer without knowing it, but bravery stuttered words on my tongue and all I could mumble was, "I…I couldn't."

"_Why_?" he demanded again and abruptly drew back to meet my anxious eyes. I missed the pressure of his hold and had the urge to hug him tight again, but the power of his gaze, the desperation for his answer, left me petrified. He made it seem this was the most important question ever asked.

"Raoul…wanted to marry and run away," I stammered, feeling guilty for no valid reason. "But I couldn't go through with it because… What if you came back, and I was gone?"

"Oh…," he breathed, and I glimpsed my answer touch some core of strength inside and rattle it on its axis. "And…did you want me to return, Christine? Or did you hope I was gone for good? Because I considered leaving you to your life, stepping back into shadows and giving all I wanted to the Vicomte. Do you wish I had?"

"I've never wished that, Erik," I admitted and swallowing hard, I added, "You left me for six months, and before that you'd been my mentor, my teacher and friend. Deception didn't mean as much when I suddenly found myself alone. You were gone, and…I hoped you'd return."

Erik stared at me in bewilderment, and unable to tear his gaze away, he got to his feet and put distance between us. "Am I to believe you, Christine?" he muttered, shaking a doubtful head. "As you cursed my face and my sins to your Vicomte and welcomed him into your arms, welcomed his _kiss_, am I to believe you considered me anything beyond a monster? No, …no, leaving you for six months was a _blessing_ to you, and my return was your nightmare brought to life. You intended to _marry_ the Vicomte. You were his _fiancée_ and wore his ring. How can I believe that amidst loyal oaths of love and devotion, amidst your fervent embraces and plans for forever, you wished that I would return? I was the monster committed to destroying your Vicomtesse dreams; I _did_ destroy them. How am I to listen to your words and fathom that any of this is wanted? I _stole_ your life."

He huffed his perturbation and turned away, and though I feared another out of tune violin concerto, he flatly commanded, "Go to bed, Christine. I will not continue this discussion with you tonight. It only ends in more heartache."

I stared at his rigid stance, questioning my own obedience, but fear kept me from defying him, a lingering terror to destroy every cinder block we stood upon and leave us floundering without a base. And it felt like rejection when I knew I'd been honest and he wouldn't believe me still. Would that always be the case? Trust was so far beyond us. Not even marriage gave us solid ground.

With a weary sigh, I conceded and climbed beneath the covers of the large bed. My gaze strayed to the open expanse beside me with the fleeting wonder when it would be occupied. My husband joining me in bed. Perhaps that was optimistic thinking because as the lights were dimmed to a faint flicker, I heard the scuffle of a chair being drawn along the floor and then silence.

"Erik?" I timidly called, forcing bravery into my fists. "Are you coming to bed?"

"With you?" he scoffed. "Not likely. There isn't a fitting place for me beside you."

"Well, …you can't mean to sleep sitting up all night," I protested. Hard-backed wooden chairs without even pillow or blankets? I couldn't imagine it.

"I don't sleep very much anyway, and when I do, this will be suitable."

"Erik, don't be ridiculous. The bed is big enough for both of us."

"I don't favor sleeping beside you, Christine."

His refusal was sharp and stung unexpectedly, and I did not silence sense as I argued back, "You won't even know I'm near you."

"No? Preposterous! _You_ are a constant temptation. As if I could fight it with your body so close! Count yourself fortunate that I've granted you your virginal bed filled with illusion and fantasy. You can dream between those sheets and hold fast to the images, form your own fairytale reality. It will be a better place than this one to be sure."

I wanted to hate him and his spitefulness. I could tell him that I was content being on a ship in the middle of the ocean sailing to a new life with _him_, and he'd call me a liar. Every time I'd say it, he'd say lie, and it felt like we were stuck in a hopeless circle, never to be free of its loop. Learn to love him, but that seemed as impossible as forgiveness. Hate was easier when he made it so. I sought a real reason, something to make the crux of hatred rather than love. It was childish on my part, but I was hurt and took the easy route.

In a quiet whisper, I asked the question that had been hovering in the back of my head. "Bringing me here, stealing me from the Vicomte's mansion, was that your plan all along? Was that a conclusion before you presented me with ultimatums and strung Raoul from your noose? When did you decide _this_ would be our future endeavor?"

I heard him heave a breath and wondered if he were angry, enraged perhaps that I'd found him out and called forth his lies and hidden agenda. I was so certain in my conclusion that it was a minor shock when he gave an answer.

"I decided about a minute after you walked away with _him_. That was all it took for me to realize I didn't want a life without you in it. The world holds nothing without the promise of hope; I learned such things from you. I _never_ hoped, not until I heard you sing for the first time all those months ago. Hope…was a mystery to a man who saw no purpose for it. I couldn't hope for a new face, for acceptance from a bitter world, not even for peace in death when hell is my destiny. But…you made me hope for love, for touch and kiss, for things I never knew I was allowed to want. …I didn't want to lose hope, and it only breathes in you."

Tears filled my eyes as I listened to him speak, and I cuddled my cheek firmer to my pillow to hide them. Erik had the eyes of a bat in the dark; he'd decipher every detail if I weren't careful. Tears felt unacceptable. I sought a reason to hate him and found one in favor of love instead. For every bitterness between us and the pain we'd inflicted, strip them away, and pure emotions like hope and love were the essence beneath.

"Erik?"

"Yes, Christine?"

"…Goodnight." What more could be said after such a day? My heart had traveled from highs to lows and back again, but now…I felt the hope he spoke of. It thrived in the unsettled air between us and encouraged something better.

"Goodnight, Christine."

The end of a first day of marriage, but hope was equally in the promise of tomorrow, of months and years. I couldn't run away anymore when things frightened and quaked my countenance. The rest of my life was bound to Erik's. Yes, …_there_ was hope.


	3. Chapter 3

I love writing scenes like this one; I'm not going to lie! Here is chapter three! Thank you for patience, but with rehearsals and being sick on top of that, it's a rough week and only half over! I hope everyone had a nice Valentines day; mine included a heart-shaped pizza! Lovely!

Oh! And anyone looking for something to do this weekend, if you live in or around Chicago, I am going to be featured at the Beverly Arts Center's Author Afternoon on Sunday, February 19th at 2PM! They will be asking me questions about "Opera Macabre" and have even coerced me into singing something! More information is on my Facebook page and my website! 

Chapter Three

Exhaustion must have aided my rest because the next time I opened my eyes, all the lamps were turned bright and my husband was leafing through a pile of manuscript paper with a pensive look on his face. The pristine Opera Ghost… I was jealous when I knew I was a disheveled mass of tangled curls and squinted eyes.

Sensing my gaze, he suddenly darted a look in my direction, and I stifled an urge to burrow my face in my pillow and pretend I was still asleep.

"Ah, good," he decided and hastily tossed his music into the open trunk en route to my bedside. I narrowed my bleary gaze upon him and was shocked to see…a _smile_. "Come on, _ange_. Up. I have something for you."

I would have expected a surly demeanor. A night sleeping in a hard chair after an unpleasant stirring of emotions would have justified a continued sullenness, but… Sitting up beneath the covers, I smoothed back my hair and arched quizzical brows.

"Come on," he repeated and reached for my hand. I permitted with a rush of my accursed curiosity and did not protest as he pulled me to my feet and toward the table.

"Dare not question my ingenious methods again," he teased as my eyes grew wide and observed what awaited: a tray filled with _real_ food, crepes and fruit, the scents heavenly as they engulfed.

"Erik? …How did you get this?" In truth, I didn't care. I was famished and eagerly plopped into my seat, already grabbing with bare hands for a strawberry. Picking up a fork seemed a waste of precious seconds, as if the plate would vanish and claim itself a mirage should I look away.

"I _cooked_ it, of course," he proudly declared, taking the seat across from mine with that smile still present and glistening in blue and green eyes. "Your own suggestion. I couldn't let you starve, could I? And for what I've paid the buffoons on this ship, I saw it my right to have free reign of their kitchen."

I was still picking at the fruit as I finally conceded to use the fork, and I whimpered in delight to cut into the crepes and find them light and perfect. This was a pleasant memory of the tentative sweetness we'd shared months ago. Erik would cook me breakfast on nights I had acquiesced to stay in his home after our lesson. Always hesitant and seeking my approval, and now was no different as he eyed me with the unasked questions in is stare, awaiting my reaction to another of his creations.

I took an anticipated forkful to my lips and savored the bite. Never once did I conceal my pleasure, grinning even as I chewed.

His exuberance only grew with my expression as he pushed for words, "Do you like it, Christine? I recalled how you always favored my crepes. You once said they were better than any café in Paris."

A passing comment, and I couldn't believe he remembered it. Well, of course. A man unaccustomed to kind compliments in any regard, even fleeting ones were likely memorized…or perhaps only ones _I_ had granted him. He seemed to recall every second of our time together even better than I did.

Trying to retain manners, I swallowed before I replied in a smile. "The best I've ever had. Thank you, _ange_. …But aren't you going to eat something?"

Forcing myself to look past my plate, I noted that he had nothing set before him. I already concluded why and wasn't surprised with his anticipated answer. "I ate before you awoke. Not everyone sleeps the morning away, Christine."

It was more than that. Again, he preferred to eat alone. I wondered how much work it would take to change his mentality on the issue. Another task set before me, but as I idly chewed another forkful, I felt charged to meet every challenge. Maybe it came merely from eating after half a day without food, or maybe it was that _hope_ Erik had spoken of ignited in a smile I had _never_ received from him. He seemed excited to surprise and delight me, and considering everything else, I relished such an expression. I wanted a million more exactly the same; just his smile warmed my heart.

"So," he pushed after a moment of shared staring, "I was contemplating how to pass our time aboard. In truth, it's little different than being buried away in my home beneath the opera."

I made a doubtful face and swallowed before I insisted, "At least your home had hot running water and a bathtub. I am yet unsure how I will wash my hair in a bucket." I cast him a scrutinizing look and insisted, "You are the portrait of perfection. How is that possible? Beyond anyone I've ever known, _you_ are obsessed with cleanliness and an immaculate appearance. How in the world have you managed with no more than a _bucket_?"

I was being forward, and I blushed even as I spoke, but his jovial mood remained unswayed. I even noted the hint of a blush on _his_ cheek as he gave an answer. "The crew has better facilities and a bathtub. I paid for privacy _and_ daily, hot baths."

I shot him an annoyed glare. "And…am I entitled to the same? Or did you only pay for yourself? Because I have a lot more hair to keep track of than you do." I tugged on my messy curls to emphasize my point, half-teasing him and surprised to see his expression darken.

"No, you are _not_ entitled, not in the crew bunk anyway. They would do anything to glimpse you. A ship full of men," he reminded with a firm shake of his head. "But…I will devise something."

I didn't question him when he'd met the last predicament without failure; I had proof on my fork. My angel always ready to take care of me. It was a role he met and exceeded every time. I was doubtless he'd do it again. Back when he'd been an invisible specter, I'd believed he had magic. Now, though I knew better, I considered his magic existed in his genius. He would always find a way because his mind worked faster and more precisely than anyone in the world.

I didn't have to wait long for him to solve the problem. Before I even finished my breakfast, he abandoned me, locking me in our room for reasons that had nothing to do with an idea that I'd run and escape. He wasn't locking me in; he was locking others out. I liked knowing that; it meant something, even if it wasn't yet trust.

Though he returned without giving an answer to what he'd done, I saw that mischievous twinkle in his eyes that reminded me of Opera Ghost tricks, and it left me anxious as I awaited impending repercussions.

That afternoon, a tentative knock came to our door. I was gowned and sitting at the table, idly paging through one of the books Erik had brought while he worked with his violin, tuning with fingers that were obviously restless and eager to play. Tucking the instrument beneath his arm, he went to answer, casting me an innocent shrug that I didn't believe for a second.

I stayed silent and watched with widening eyes as a couple of sailors entered our room, pushing a large bathtub. They seemed annoyed in their compliance, even as they cast leers over me and made me shrink in my seat.

The looks did not go unnoticed by Erik's ever-vigilant stare, and he coldly reminded, "Do your job and get out."

A tub, and then sailors brought buckets of steaming water to fill it, and I glanced at my husband to find him eagerly gauging my surprise. He wanted approval, and I gave it in the smile I could not suppress despite our audience. Their spying didn't matter; Erik _deserved_ the smile, and I bestowed it upon him without hesitation.

Words stayed unspoken until the sailors finished filling the tub and left our room. I noted how quickly Erik locked them out as if he couldn't bear even their knowledge that I would bathe.

"Will this suffice?" he finally asked as he met my wide stare.

"Thank you," I softly bid beneath my shy smile. The steaming water called to me, inviting me into its soothing embrace. I could hardly wait to submerge in its depths, and yet…my heart fluttered and raced in erratic instability as Erik stalked to the opposite end of our small room and returned to fumbling with his violin.

"Are you…leaving?" I pushed as any delight became anxiety.

"I hadn't intended to," he stated simple as that and tested uneven pitches as he worked the tuning again. "This cursed instrument doesn't favor the dampness in the air."

He was avoiding my aghast stare, pretending the violin was his only concern and focus, and shuddering down every limb, I demanded, "But you can't mean to stay in the room…while I bathe?"

"And what would you have me do instead? Roam the deck with those rude-staring, unkept sailors?" He scoffed his discontentment, still avoiding my gaze. "You asked for a hot bath; I provided it. If the circumstances surrounding are not to your favor, then you need not use the tub and I'll have it removed. Your _choice_, Christine."

"But…you're going to stay here the entire time I'm…?" I couldn't even finish the thought, gaping back and forth between tub and violin.

"Your modesty is absolutely ridiculous and a nuisance," he concluded. "You used to bathe in my home quite often without even a suspiciously arched brow."

"Not right in front of you!" I snapped back and gained a surprised chuckle that only infuriated me further.

"If it appeases your modesty, I am quite preoccupied with this infernal violin. It holds a bit of precedence over _you_ at the moment since it is the only instrument I have aboard and I cannot fathom weeks without a single decent pitch."

I put no credence in his arrogant façade. This was the conniving side of the Opera Ghost, once again using his genius to his advantage. But I saw the violin waver in his grasp and give his anxiousness away when his posture only spoke control. Let him say what he liked; the concept of his new wife bare in the room with him shook him as much as it would any man.

"You better make a decision," he goaded with a point of his bow toward the awaiting tub. "Your water is going to get cold."

Obstinacy urged me to stomp my foot like a petulant child and refuse, but…I knew Erik's stubborn streak exceeded mine, and I had a fear that if I didn't concede, this would be the only bath I'd be offered until we docked in America and I'd be left to cope with the bucket! But I scowled at his shape, noting that he _still_ wouldn't meet my eye and likely didn't see my attempt.

I was wrong. "Your aggravation is adorable," he taunted and left me to huff and turn my back to him.

I had no guarantee that he would be a gentleman and at least _pretend_ to grant me privacy. Asking felt redundant, and I wouldn't believe any futile vow because I knew him too well. He was too intelligent and would find a loophole in any promise I posed, some excuse that made his actions acceptable. I didn't bother seeking to outsmart him; I knew by the time I came up with a clause without breakage, my tub would be cold and unwanted.

And so with shaking fingers, I reached for the clasps of my gown. I kept my back to him, closing _my_ eyes as if should I not look, he wouldn't. Ridiculous! Yes, but as my stomach fluttered with my nerves, I was desperate for anything that meant calm.

The gown tumbled to the wood floor, petticoat, corset, shoes and stockings. I paused to unbind my hair as if its curtain would shield. It did nothing, and I cursed my innocence as I shivered so hard that I almost could go no further.

The violin had been single whined pitches in the background, but as I halted, its notes weaved together and launched into a song. Ah yes, _pretend_ to be engaged in the music! I shot a glare over my shoulder, but true to prediction, Erik _seemed_ to be lost in his playing, never a single sneaked peek, never anything but strings and bow. I didn't believe the façade. If anything, it made me more on edge. He was _trying_ to seem distracted, and that told me that his fingers were restless, that the distraction was as much for his desire as a cover, that he'd been furtively watching me the entire time.

I hissed an unladylike curse beneath my breath and blushed bright to hear his light chuckle of amusement. Oh, curse it all! As quick as I could, I tossed off chemise and pantaloons and darted into the miniscule protection of heated water, gasping at the sudden temperature change. Had I taken my time, it wouldn't have felt searing to the bone. Another reason to curse my intrigued audience!

I kept my arms woven about my body, crouching deep enough in the water so that only shoulders peeked above the surface, and my gaze wandered to the incessant serenade playing in the background.

His body moved with the instrument, its legato lines creating a serene expression upon that masked face, but it was a pretense. It was shallow, and I was accustomed to looks that went deep. Usually consumed in music meant passion lighting his masked face, and this… No, passion was hidden because it was inappropriate. It was buried in the music instead of streaming out of it, and I shivered even in warm water. I was doubtless he had seen _everything_ and desired me to heights greater than any other.

And what was I to do? I was trapped, naked in the tub, and he was my husband. If he chose to act on desire, I couldn't argue. …I _wouldn't_ argue, or so said the tremble in my stomach racing tingles upon my bare skin. No, …I wouldn't argue.

But the serenade was the wall and necessary boundary, and as it played on, I knew he kept control and relaxed in my warm cocoon. With a soft sigh, I unfurled my aching muscles and let tension fade, suddenly grateful beyond words that Erik had arranged a bath for me. It seemed to take away days of unease.

On the collapse of exhalation, I ducked my head below the water where violin pitches were muffled and little more than vibrations that tickled my drowned inner ear. Part of me longed to remain burrowed in that watery grave. Not death, just protection. In water's embrace, I felt oddly safe in the familiarity. It was a disappointment to need breath and reemerge.

As water dripped along my features, I darted a look to Erik and found his mismatched stare on me with a modicum of concern even as he continued to play across the room. I wondered if _he_ thought I wanted to drown, and I also wondered how long it would have taken him to come to my rescue. The fantasy alone made my insides tremble as I hugged my body again and kept only shoulders in his view. He would have pulled me from the water and berated, cursed an attempt I wasn't even making, but then…desire would have surged and overcome without a violin to bear its brunt, and I would have succumbed with him…

I shuddered with the thought alone, and my eyes were drawn to his hands again, my skin's cells begging to replace the instrument and feel fingers and caresses, feel _beauty_ from a man always denied it. My arms about my torso felt insufficient and disappointing, and as I dropped their shield with distance to keep him from glimpsing more than shoulders, I held Erik's gaze, unable to stop trembling.

"Christine, stop looking at me like that," he suddenly commanded, his music never faltering even a single pitch.

I felt my cheeks flame scarlet and wondered how much of my fantasy was vividly on display as I ducked my head beneath the surface of the water again and hid a guilty smile.

I took my time in the bath, half-afraid of leaving the water's protection. I made it seem my delay was intentional, scrubbing my skin and hair, combing through the wet locks even as I kept elbows drawn to my chest and never revealing a single detail when I felt Erik's gaze frequently upon me. I tried to pretend he wasn't there and that the violin's song was not feet away, but _rooms_ away. It worked until I finally had to get out. The water was chilling and making goose bumps and wrinkles coat my flesh.

My anxious eyes sought a towel left within arm's reach, and as I devised the easiest way to grab it without exposing anything, the music ceased. I gasped softly and watched with wide eyes and arms wrapped tight as Erik set the violin down and collected my towel. With only one shared look, he held it out to me and turned his back. I didn't know if he'd change his mind, and yet I did not ask for promises as I stood up and took the towel. To my surprise, he never looked, not once as I bound myself in the rough material. He simply went back to his music.

Should I have been relieved or longing? I felt both emotions in equaled amounts and decided not to figure out which deserved to win as I grabbed my clothes and stole away to the small bathroom to change with some semblance of privacy.

By the time I returned with a head full of confusion and no answers, the tub had been removed, and Erik was no longer toying with his music but awaiting me with apprehension I shared.

"Are you…finished with the violin for today?" I stammered, running nervous fingers through my damp curls.

"Yes, …I wasn't achieving much progress with it. Perhaps tomorrow." His gaze passed over my every detail, and I felt it seep through clothing as if envisioning again what he'd glimpsed.

Blushing uncontrollably, I looked away from the hunger gradually flickering and growing in mismatched depths and fought for words. "Did…did the sailors come for the tub?"

"Yes, but by my orders, they will bring it back every day at the same time for you. …Does that please you, Christine?"

Please _me_ or please _him_? I grinned a bit with the thought but nodded a ducked head. "Yes, thank you. …And will I have a violin serenade as my accompaniment every day while I bathe?"

"Perhaps. …The instrument is being fickle."

A lie and an excuse, and even though I shivered, I wasn't upset to have an unbidden audience as I was vulnerable and bare in my bath. How could I be when one glance showed such avid desire never completely hidden behind the mask? I knew this game was teasing temptation, and yet…I didn't want to stop playing it. 

* * *

><p>We fell into a pattern of behavior on the ship as the days passed. Erik was right; it wasn't much different than being contained in his underground home, and though I missed the sun, the sky, and the stars, I had a promise to see them again when we arrived in our new life and that was enough to keep hope alive.<p>

Erik wasn't husband so much as teacher and tentative friend again. We returned to our lessons with his violin to give pitches and accompaniment. I was doubtless the entire crew heard every exercise and high note resonate the boat, but they never ventured to stop us or complain. I harbored the notion that Erik made them nervous. He hadn't posed any real threats, but the mask was threat enough. He didn't need words when masks seemed to insist secrets, sins, and malice. It was unjust, and yet if it kept us safe, I never spoke my thoughts on the subject.

Violin accompanied my voice and then my baths. He continued his charade of practicing as I indulged in warm water, and even though I was less anxious, I still never fully relaxed with his observing presence. He played the gentleman, never caught watching me, but his eyes burned for him and gave every snuck glance away. I felt blue and green creep along my bare shoulders and seek to spy beneath the water's surface. It was a meager consolation that he had little more than blurred features when every day the power of desire intensified. One day it must burst. A violin went from playing adagio melodies to frantic cadenzas with fingers that never fumbled and yet never stilled. I harbored an inkling of fear in their aggression because I knew the violin was an inadequate substitute. Those hands wanted _my_ flesh beneath their ministrations and the notion made me tremble and shiver in reply. I knew soon they'd find their mark, and I _anticipated_ it.

As implied, I had adjusted to our temporary arrangement, and being without windows or glimpses of clouds and sun, I often forgot we were on a boat. Not even the gentle sway beneath our feet was acknowledged…until one evening when a gentle sway became turbulent.

The floor beneath my feet was in constant, abrupt motion, making standing difficult. It grew worse as evening became night, and by the time I went to bed, I could hear rain pattering the wooden sides of the boat as an unsettled sea violently tossed us about like a child's toy.

I pretended to be unaffected, lying cuddled deep beneath the covers and yet squeezing my eyes shut at every lift and drop. I hated the feeling of having no control and handing my life to a captain I had barely met with trust that he would take us through this storm without fault. It didn't seem right.

A huff met me from across the darkened space, but it was thick in annoyance not fear. As the ship jerked again and I heard Erik's chosen chair inch across the floor, another aggravated huff came as he tried to steady its motion.

"Erik?" I called weakly from the bed. "I know you don't favor lying in bed with me, but it seems a better reality than keeping that chair in line all night."

Another angered huff, and it was almost humorous that his rage was directed at an inability to rein a wooden chair with his almighty Opera Ghost power. I could conclude that my dismay over a lack of control went double for him. Erik was never keen to depend on anyone.

"Fine," he finally decided, but it was flatly spoken, never seeming a pleasure. No, he made lying in bed with me sound like a punishment, but I did not push for more as I heard him shuffle about on the undulating floor before sitting on the opposite side of the mattress.

I could see little in the dim lantern light, not much beyond his silhouette, but as he lay down beneath the covers and turned to face me, I deciphered the mask, never removed, and gradually, his eyes and hints of his expression.

"What's wrong, Christine?" he demanded. I should have known nothing could stay hidden when a single look delved to my soul. "Is it only my presence in your bed that upsets you? Or is it something else?"

As if to prove him wrong, I inched closer to his shape, curling my knees like his knees until they pressed together and my head rested upon his pillow with him.

"You were crying," he deduced and lifted a hand to trail one finger down my cheek in the path a tear had taken. "Why? …Are you unhappy?"

I heard apprehension and did not let it bloom as I quickly shook my head. "It isn't that. It's…" The boat rocked again, shifting abruptly, and I could not contain a whimper as the waves dropped out from beneath us and then caught us again with a jolt. In a soft cry, I revealed, "I was afraid."

"Of the storm?" he incredulously pushed with a relief he likely didn't want me to hear. "Christine, it's common for storms at sea. It's nothing to be afraid of, nothing beyond a nuisance. It will be all right, _ange_."

But another jerk, harsh and left, and I had a difficult time believing him. "How do you know that? Ships capsize, Erik, and full crews die in the middle of the ocean. Why aren't you afraid if death is a reality?"

I caught tenderness in eyes that caressed my face as gentle as the hand that still held my jaw. "If I die right now, I die in the one place I've always wanted to be. You're the only thing in this entire world I care about. If, God willing, death comes, then I end with _you_. I take that as a blessing rather than something to fear."

I studied the shadowed details of his masked face and sought to absorb his calm countenance. It wasn't so easy. "But…I'm afraid to die."

"Everyone dies; it's every person's inevitable destiny. Consider it this way: the vast majority goes alone, but if we die tonight, we go together. And I'll keep your hand in mine and never let you face the darkness without an angel beside you."

A smile curved my lips with his vow, and I reached for his free hand and entwined our fingers. Unbreakable, indestructible, forever. The boat rocked to the right this time, and though my smile failed, I clutched tight to Erik's hand and made it my anchor.

The hand at my jaw opened to cup my cheek, his long fingers reaching along my temple and weaving in my hair. "I used to wish for death," he admitted in hushed whispers as though it were an unforgiveable secret. "I craved it to come and take me from this life. Most people in this world call themselves unfortunate, but they have no idea what real suffering is. Suffering is being tortured for the things you can't change, the things you were never able to control. Being tortured merely for being born and existing in the world. I used to believe I had no _right_ to live, unworthy to breathe the air. I began to think that I must survive in order to punish _God_. He created me this way; He wanted life to break me to pieces. Living was smiting Him for His unmerciful cruelty."

I listened to him speak thoughts he'd likely never shared with anyone. It hurt me to hear them and know he'd ever believed such things. "And yet now you speak of blessings," I whispered back.

"_You_ are my blessing; your existence proves to me that even the most worthless life has a purpose. If I had succumbed years ago and chose not to survive, I never would have found you, and that would have been a tragedy beyond my accursed face and upbringing because you needed me as much as I needed you."

He was right, but I didn't tell him so. Words were insufficient. I clung to his hand and lifted my free one to his mask. He never stopped me, just watched silent and vigilant as I removed its barrier and set it aside, finding his face in the shadows. Without a thought, I edged close to set a single, delicate kiss to its malformation before I cuddled against his body and set my cheek to the hollow of his throat where his flustered heartbeat could pulse in little taps against my jawbone.

A storm raged outside, thunder, lightning, rain pounding the walls, and waves jolting our bed, but we went undisturbed. I held to my angel, my _blessing_ on this earth, and was able to fall asleep with his gentle breaths grazing my brow to speak of his life. I knew he would protect me, and even if death came, I'd be safe with his hand always in mine. 

* * *

><p>I awoke alone, but that was expected when the boat had returned to its usual sway and a storm was as forgotten as a dream. The mask was back in place to greet me, the typical friendly relationship we'd been indulging, but I saw hints of deeper emotions in every shared gaze. I'd given him more than the hope in a kiss under the catacombs last night. I didn't regret it.<p>

Things went as per our established routine. We worked on our music, and any new affection was put aside in favor of imperative roles. The only crack in veneers came during my practiced aria as Erik cursed his violin and called it unsuited to accompaniment. He vowed in fervent terms that we would have a glorious piano in our new home, the best money could buy, and the declaration made me smile with anticipation. Our new home… That was a better promise than the piano.

The accursed violin was back in his hands as my bath was arranged and never lowered as I sat bare in the water's embrace.

An allegro agitato rapidly raced the strings, and the tension of minor melodies and ornaments made me stiff and nervous, unable to uncoil rigid limbs and enjoy the deliciousness of a hot bath.

Finally, I could take it no more, and leaning upon the edge of the tub with bare, wet arms dripping to the floor beneath, I demanded, "Can you not play something less…unnerving?"

He quit mid-pitch and glared at me with narrowed eyes. "I do not play for an audience, and I was in the mood for something…_unnerving_. I would never classify Bach in such deplorable terms, but it was out of your mouth not mine."

I knew he could not separate his emotions from the music and was distinctly aware where tension lay as his mismatched gaze abruptly traveled to my exposed arms and followed their lengths as if arms were a provocative part of the body. I shivered in spite of my perturbation and ducked a blush low so that only my eyes peeked above my forearms.

"Erik…," I softly bid and wondered if sense spoke as some unqualified warning. Warning to what? To stop desiring? To stop showing it? To stop making wanting into a serenade upon a violin? …To stop denying himself when a legal vow made it his right?

"Would you prefer an adagio movement instead?" he asked, and I pondered if the sheer anxiety I glimpsed in every flexed muscle would _allow_ for an adagio. It would be such a contradiction and for the first time, untied to his emotions, and curious over the challenge, I nodded with a hidden smirk. The Opera Ghost pouring sexual repression into legato lines… I doubted he could triumph and perched my chin upon my forearms to watch and goad in silently arched brows.

He scowled at me, and I stifled a giggle, imagining the curses playing in his mind. All such dramatics over music and a need to prove himself! It was humorous and stole my apprehension even better than warm water!

But annoyance became a sudden snicker from his lips as he began to play. Lyrical, adagio, major with hinted minors, perfect execution with every fluid phrase, and matching its tempo, he began to idly stroll about the room as he played, eyes always on me. I caught a gasp upon my tongue. Foiled by my own game! But he was using a gorgeous adagio to bring him closer to my tub than he'd ever dared come, a hinted grin curving his lips to speak his victory.

Yes, he'd proven he could play without attaching his yearnings to the music because they were written in vivid hues in a gaze that did not hesitate to trail my curves despite the frantic way I hugged them. He challenged me right back in his desire, and when my options left me vulnerable, I could do nothing but stare.

The stoic Opera Ghost arrived alongside my tub, standing in the puddle my dripping arms had left upon the deck, and even as I curled into a tight ball, he peeked and ignored my glare with an amused smile always upon his lips.

"Erik!" I snapped over the timbre of the music.

"What?" he innocently replied. "I'm doing as _you_ requested. An adagio, you said. You really shouldn't be this tense. It's a contradiction to the music."

My own thoughts brought back around to spite me! And though I continued to glare and await a retreat, I fought an urge to break to a laugh at his unending play at blamelessness and enjoyment merely to taunt me.

Music and continued motion upon strings seemed to strengthen an arrogant façade so that it never showed even a hint of timidity. "What would it take to get you to lower arms and defenses? An andante instead of an adagio? Perhaps I should sing as well. Distract my senses with other tasks and make you feel less threatened? What are your thoughts, dear wife?"

His intent gaze traveled between my clinging arms and my wide eyes, and shivering so hard that I could barely form an answer, I insisted, "You…you said you wouldn't consummate our marriage until you could forgive me and I loved you. Do you believe a week at sea has changed things so drastically?"

A flimsy excuse, and why? I had been half-certain I wanted this, eager to be brave and not run away, but…bravery was inconsistent when it was not solidified. I could think bravery, even pretend it, but when it came to being naked and vulnerable before the rampant lust in my new husband and former Opera Ghost's eyes, I was as frightened as a child.

Erik never fumbled a single stroke of bow to strings as arching the brow the mask did not hide, he taunted, "I said nothing about _consummating_, did I? No, I only requested lowering arms and a rightful glimpse of my beautiful wife. I'm quite tired of stealing peeks when you are unaware. Am I not entitled one look?"

"Peeks?" I tried to seem annoyed, but nervous giggles slipped from my lips. "I _knew_ you weren't fixated enough on your violin to avoid looking!"

"Well, I _am_ a man after all, and the most desirable creature in existence is naked and bathing mere feet away. …What would you have me do?" He chuckled, and I wondered if his humor was as inextricably bound to anxiety as mine was. But…I found that I liked this game with him, perhaps more than I should. Amidst desire in flames, there was affection, a warmth that exuded every time he called me beautiful. I knew he meant it.

I pondered a breath, pursing my lips and pretending to contemplate when really, I was collecting courage. "Don't stop playing," I commanded, blushing bright pink as I considered what I was about to do.

"Never," he vowed, awaiting with anticipation and a breath never exhaled.

I tucked my chin against the hollow of my throat and only peered up between my lashes as I gradually released the viselike hold I had and relaxed fisted hands and clinging arms. Slow and shaking through every motion, I lowered my arms and pressed my elbows tight to my sides, every breath quivering and keeping the surface of warm water in a constant ripple. I knew he wouldn't have an unobstructed view, every detail blurred and hazy, but I saw him start anyway, a jolt like lightning striking, and for the first time, a pitch went askew and squeaked the violin's strings.

And I laughed! I couldn't help it! I was so nervous and blushing incessantly, and to know Erik was just as affected, to the point that music failed, laughter was a natural reaction and bobbed like bubbles in my lungs.

He cursed beneath his breath, looking away from me long enough to swell the melody back around and reiterate the same passage precisely before he indulged another glance. Playing continued, but slower than an adagio, pitch by pitch and only because he'd vowed not to stop the music. But his eyes spoke what he'd prefer to be doing as they ran feverish caresses beneath the water and lingered over my every hazed feature.

I couldn't catch my breath, knowing if I would just hold it still in my lungs, he'd have a better view, but unable to be bold enough to follow through. So the surface trembled with my nerves, but it never halted the mixture of longing and adoration in mismatched depths. I savored being the focus of that look.

"Say something," I finally gasped, my flesh tingling merely from the intangible touches of his eyes.

To my utter surprise, he had no words. No, he began to sing without lyrics, simple legato lines that matched the violin, beautiful, golden, angel tones that drew a soft whimper from my lips without my permission. That voice had once been my obsession, every sound it could make, and as it echoed and weaved about my bare body, I felt an ache within. Like a mirror of the past, I yearned to reach out to him, to invite touch, kiss, anything he could give. I'd once believed it a spell; now I knew it was unintentional possession, and I was mesmerized because I _wanted_ to be. He had no more power than what I gave him, and as such, though I _wanted_ to beg for hands and lips, I kept desire in my stare alone and never found intelligible requests.

It didn't take long for our indulged game to become unsatisfying. It wasn't enough for either of us, but when he could have asked for more, he didn't. It was as if he didn't know how to request such things. Singing still, he dragged his gaze from my body and strolled back to the opposite side of the room, adagio picking up tempo the further he went.

I was only able to take a full breath when beyond his sight, but disappointment came with inhalation. I might be terrified, but I knew I wanted more than just being victim to his stare. I wondered which would arrive first to finally have us crossing thresholds: my bravery or his decision to break walls and take. An answer would come soon enough.


	4. Chapter 4

Here is Chapter Four! Enjoy! :)

Chapter Four

Erik had more control than I gave him credit for. He went back to violin serenades during my baths with never another request for more, but I noticed that his peeking was no longer hidden or with reservation. He watched me undress and disregarded my pink blushes and trembles, and though he restricted himself to the opposite side of the room, he kept eyes always on me as he played. It was disconcerting for the first few days, but as I began to realize the power I unwittingly had over his desire and delight in the way his gaze flamed and burned at every flustered breath, I stopped being so shy. I tempted him to break, gazing back at him and even humming along with the violin's song, and yet he never cracked even an inch. He was strong, and I was probably a fool to taunt him.

We'd been aboard the ship and married for over two weeks, earning a rapport with each other that was comfortable and included candid conversation and even laughter. It felt like an achievement, and when sense posed that I was simply adapting to the situation and treating Erik sweetly because he was my sole companion, I didn't listen. I chose to _forget_ everything else: our past, his sins, his face, Raoul and our childish engagement, the rest of the world and its opinion. And that's how I learned to love him.

Love had always existed. It was rooted in the longing for an angel's heart. He _was_ the angel despite his deceptions, and love was the same love. Feeling it was easy; _accepting_ was the difficult part and then showing it back without consideration of anything but the whisper in a heart's beating. I had loved Erik as I had agreed to marry Raoul, and why had I encouraged the Vicomte? Because the world called him a treasure and envied me for catching him.

It was so simple when the rest of life was on my side; going _against_ everyone and everything on the planet required a strong spirit, one I was still learning to possess. But perhaps this forced confinement was exactly the way to inspire it. Because I was now able to look at Erik without trepidation or apprehension, to look at him as my dearest friend and husband, not the enemy I'd been told he was for so long. I shut out everything but a wish to make him smile and laugh and a desire to be always this close to him.

Companionship and acceptance were half the battle; the other half was the passion, thick yet unindulged in the air. It erupted beyond barriers sometimes, and other times, it was kept on a firm leash. Never a touch or a kiss, nothing beyond desperate stares. I began to wonder whose penance it was: mine for once rejecting him as he'd implied or his for stealing me away and marrying me, denial for what he considered another sin. Consummating our marriage made it real, and I wasn't sure _he_ was ready for that.

Frustration existed in both our corners, and it became a spark for my boldness. I took a little longer with my bath one evening, dallying within the tub and its warm embrace. Humming softly beneath my breath, I lifted each arm languidly from the water's protective cocoon and ran my sponge up and down again, pretending that I did not hear the soft gasp from the other side of the room and then the husky breaths that followed, hoarse beneath the violin's high pitches. This game was not safe, and yet I naively played it, feigning innocence for the desire I stirred with every moment.

The violin shifted to a faster tempo and became the victim of repressed lust, tormented by Erik's urgent hands. How I envied it! It reddened my skin to admit it but did nothing to sway my brazen show. I washed my hair and combed through wet curls and acted oblivious to the fact that the water barely hid my breasts or that my aroused troubadour was running his gaze over every bit of wet skin and lingering on their fullness with a soft moan that made me shiver. I acted innocent, and it was a lie.

Perhaps I should have considered that Erik was a man of temper and passion and limiting himself the past weeks aboard the ship was out of character for him. Perhaps my façade of innocence wasn't entirely fabricated and included a certain ignorance. I'd never willingly tempted a man before and didn't know how far I could push or what would come from it, not beyond romanticized ideas. Desire where Erik was concerned was a lot more frightening than romance.

As I emerged from the small bathroom in my flimsy nightdress, my first thought was that the music had ceased. …And then he was upon me.

Strong arms caught me about the waist and drew me to the hard wall of his chest. I went voluntarily with the smallest cry that was more than surprise; it was delight and surrender. It was afraid and yet carried a thrill that traveled my spine in a rush simply to _feel_ him close.

Moaning thick and urgent, he bent and pressed his masked face to my breast. I gasped and slid my fingers into his hair, curving joints taut with tension against his scalp and urging in wordless wanting. The mask was a hindrance to anything beyond a gentle nuzzling, but any graze to the sensitive peak brought tingles and hardened its structure as I whimpered with shock and longing in a fisted bundle. How could any single touch bring so much sensation? But as his bare cheek rubbed and made it strain and beg to be free, my knees shook beneath my weight until his hold was the only thing keeping me upright.

"Erik!" I gasped without voice and kneaded restless fingers in his hair. I wanted! And it surprised me how much! The ache he ignited surpassed fear and left me ready to plead for more. But he wasn't done. He rubbed against my nipple with the mask again, groaning frustration at barriers, and lifting one hand, he shifted its edge enough to free lips, never fully exposing scars or revealing a face I yearned to see. Only lips, and though I had glimpses of their misshapen, bloated shape, I never recoiled or pondered disgust. How could disgust be a consideration as they captured my nipple within their distorted cavern and sucked hard through my nightdress?

I cried out. It was a primordial response from the hollow sensation inside, an urgency to be complete. He wasn't gentle, and I didn't want him to be. He teased my breast with his mouth, soaking cotton material with his flicking tongue, and I arched nearer to the flame, watching every second and only more aroused at the sight. This was _my_ Erik. I _wanted_ to know that, wanted to be sure this was not a dream and dub him the inspiration of passion's undulating waves.

One hand still kept fixed to his mask, but the other splayed wide at the small of my back and pressed my hips flush to his to reveal his wanting in every subtle throb. And he only grew harder as he continued to tease my breast as if telling me how I pleased him with every inch.

Erik drew back so that only the tip of his tongue lapped, and shuddering with a frantic cry, I formed one word on my stiff lips, "_Please_!"

"Please?" he muttered between kisses to the swell of my aching breast. "Please what, Christine? Please _stop_? Please _continue_? Please cease soiling you with my repulsive mouth?"

My hands fisted tight in his hair, trying to draw him to more, but he kept back and met my gaze with the only eye not concealed by his askew mask, deep green like a sparkling emerald. "Don't say it like that," I pleaded in a throaty sigh.

It took an effort to make my limbs obey, but I brought one hand to his exposed mouth and outlined its shape with my fingers.

I felt him tremble beneath my delicate caresses, but he shook his head and decided, "And you touch what you once found most abhorrent."

Touch…then touch wasn't enough. I bent and pressed a kiss to that distorted mouth, fitting my lips to his despite their irregular design and swallowing his cry. Yes, this was more intimate and telling. I'd made a kiss into hope once before, and I did the same now, molding my mouth firmer to his and imitating an intensity he'd taught me. I did not restrain impulse; I let it overwhelm and even parted my lips to let my tongue lick at the seam of his, teasing, tempting, and then tasting as he complied to allow me access. I tasted him and shivered at the sweetness.

I only drew back to cover the hand he kept on his mask with mine and beg, "Please take it off. Please, Erik."

"Why? Will you finally perform a necessary penance, Christine? Seek your forgiveness by feigning acceptance for a monster's flaws?"

His words cut straight through to bone, and I felt the resonating ache of pain as I shook my head and insisted, "But I thought… You said you needed to learn to forgive me, and I presumed-"

"That I had?" he finished curtly as if my conclusion were ridiculous. "How? You have yet to speak apologies or act penitent. _This_ was about lust and nothing more. You tempt at every breath, and of course, control must have a breaking point."

He had yet to release me, and desire still radiated between our bodies, but it suddenly felt shameful to me. As he said, it was only lust, and I had assumed so much more.

Refusing to fall completely to abashment, I hastily bid, "And what can I do to earn forgiveness? What more do you expect of me? We've spent the past weeks solely in each other's company without anger or guises."

"Precisely! _Solely_ in each other's company. And I must fear what will happen when the boat docks and puts us back in the world. Will you run at first chance? Will you leave me when I no longer have you locked away in a room? _Forgive_," he spat the word, adjusting his mask back into place and glaring at me with both eyes. "I _can't_ forgive someone who is not sorry. You are abiding my presence because there is no Vicomte to seek protection from. You have no other option at present."

I had never considered a single of his fears. Run from him at first chance? That hadn't been an idea or a musing. "You are my _husband_," I replied as my main point.

"More coercion on my part. Husband by my own command. Don't you dare sugarcoat my crimes; I know what I've done. A marriage to keep a legal hold over you, and that gives you incentive to flee as if you are running from the devil himself." His grasp on my hips tightened to a pinch. "_Forgive_," he used the word as an insult. "And does forgiveness include devising ways to keep you locked in our new home once we arrive? Because that is what I pass the time doing. Making plans for your _cage_, my wife. I can find no way to forgiveness because forgiveness means being a fool again and _trusting_ you. Imagine! Trusting the girl who callously trampled on my heart at every turn! It's easier to be an enemy and captor than husband to you, Christine. Your own actions made me this way, and forgiveness is impossible."

"Impossible? No, I won't believe that," I declared and did not falter to the fire in his eyes. "Tell me what you would have me do. How can I earn forgiveness?"

I was adamant, but he scoffed as if the question were ridiculous. Still, I did not give up. I lifted my hand for his mask and took it as hope when he did not stop me from removing it. He preferred his face hidden when he longed to spark desire in me, but now it was evident he thought its distortions would rattle the strength I was clinging to. He was wrong.

Tossing the mask away so that it was beyond either of our grasps, I exposed reality and did not shy away from honesty.

"You're right," I said to the ugliness of scars seeking to break and interpret me at the same time. "I never apologized for the sins I committed. I believed marrying you was enough, but it's not. I broke your heart time and again. I ran from you and made your face seem the reason why when it was always fear as my impetus. A fear to love you… But, Erik, can you truly blame me for my naïve youth? I thought the world a fairytale and never looked beneath the golden binding when the truth frightened me." I stared transfixed in the colors of his eyes, knowing what would shake him from his pedestal, and I prayed he'd believe me as I gave it. "I love you, Erik. I've always loved you. But you know that. There's never been a doubt for _you_ in _my_ heart. You sought to show me so often, and I pushed you away for the Vicomte. Not because I cared for him but because it was easy and acceptable. I loved you all along but never knew how to feel and believe it."

"Love?" he retorted and yet I saw a fracture in his armor. "I'm not convinced you know what love is. You once thought you loved the Vicomte. You tried to prove it by saving his life. Your sacrifice, your noble choice. Your life for his. You considered _that_ love. Am I to believe you loved _me_ as you saved _him_?"

"I kissed _you_," I reminded, "…I did it because I love you."

"You love me?" he repeated, dubious and scrutinizing me from behind every scar. "You love this face, Christine? You will stand at my side as my wife even if the world learns our secrets and figures out that your husband is a monster and a murderer? My love has been a constant embarrassment to you. To love an ugly man… The world will laugh at you and spit in your face. When that happens, what then? Your supposed bravery has a deadly flaw. It falters when I need it most. The voices will get louder and scream their obscenities. They'll call me a freak, Christine, a corpse, a gargoyle. They'll ridicule _you_ for allowing my touch. They'll look on _you_ in disgust. That is the reality of the _love_ you want to claim. Learning _how_ to love me means learning how to stare down the world. You've never been good at that."

How could I argue with what was true? I'd _never_ stood up for myself or my heart. I'd let Raoul be my strength and denied what I knew was right. My father had taught me better than my actions showed me to be. He would have been disappointed to know I hadn't made up my own mind and went with the crowd. I let the world press its opinion of Erik upon me instead of sticking to my own. Sins were in Erik's soul, but they were _his_ to bear. He'd never put them upon me. He'd only ever loved me, and I'd tortured him for it.

Unable to find a suitable answer, I suddenly broke free of Erik's hold and slipped to my knees at his feet. Supplication, how often had he been in such a pose before me? Penitent and unashamed to show it.

"Christine, …what are you doing?"

But I kept my head bowed and set my cheek to his thigh, finding a certain comfort in his tall poise. "I'm sorry," I bid in soft tones, vulnerable to my soul. "Please, _ange_, forgive me. Forgive the weak spirit you chose to give your heart to. I don't deserve it. Erik, …forgive me my faults." He'd asked that of me, and I was only too eager to beg the same.

"No, no, get up," he abruptly commanded, bending to clasp my forearms and drag me back to my feet. "Stop, Christine."

"Why?"

"I should _punish_ you for your words!"

I stared at that malformed face and could not reason his rage. Had I not granted him what he wanted? Love, confession, and penance. But he was enraged, the grip on my arms harsh enough to cause pain, and I cringed and tried not to show it.

"Punish…?"

"You don't know what you're saying!" he snapped. "If you love me, then _you_ forgive _me_, and you _can't_. You foolish girl! Do not condone the monster's actions! I abducted you from your life! You should _hate_ not love!"

Forgive… And I understood. None of his walls were constructed with a need to forgive _me_. It was a need to forgive _himself_. The self-loathing smeared ugly emotion across his face and demented a damaged palette.

"Stop," I begged and lifted the hands of my gripped arms to touch his face. I never hesitated, running my fingertips along every abhorrent expression and smoothing creases away. "I don't carry blame; stop placing it upon your shoulders."

"Christine…" Tears pooled at the corners of deep eye sockets and shimmered with his incessant quivering. "_Hate_ me. _Please_. Don't love me. _Don't_. I will destroy you. Look at my face and see a _monster_ as the rest do. Let me force my love upon you and lock your heart away. I'll punish you and make it a horror story so that when you run, you will have good reason."

"I will _not_ run," I vowed, steady and convicted, still etching his face with my fingers. His grip relaxed to allow my ministrations, and I took advantage, trailing my entire hand along his features and making a mold within my palm. "Love me, and I'll love you, and we'll write our own story. We'll shut out the past and leave it as a nightmare."

"I want to believe you…" His eyes fluttered closed as he leaned into my touch. "Dear God, that feels amazing. You're so gentle with me. …You shouldn't be. You should deny me and fight to keep your body from my tarnished hands."

"Why? You are my husband. It is yours. _All _of me is yours. Do you believe me, Erik?"

"For the moment," he decided. "You are mine _for the moment_ until we dock and you leave. …But no! I won't let you go." His hands released my arms to wrap about my waist and hug me to him. "God will judge me for my sins and grant His retribution in the afterlife. And if my eternity is to be more suffering in fire and flames, I'll take a piece of bliss in this lifetime. I will keep _you_ as _mine_. Locks, chains, another cage. You will _not_ leave me, Christine. _Never_. Do you understand?"

Desperation glinted in his eyes greater than tears or temper. I didn't want to leave him; I could say as much, and he wouldn't believe it. So I simply nodded concession and surrendered a freedom I didn't want anyway.

"Escape was never an option," he concluded, and as I cupped his damaged skin, he turned to press an urgent kiss into my palm. "I did not steal you just to grow mercy and let you go in my guilt. I refuse guilt. I deserve the one thing I've ever found to grant me hope and make me happy. All humanity is entitled to such fortune. My face should not be the condemning factor and neither should my blackened soul. …I seem crude and cruel, don't I? Taking your life, your love, your body… The title of monster truly is a suitable fit. I won't fight it anymore. I _am_ a monster, and I will keep you in my claws now and forever."

Monster… Well, this monster was _loved_, and I was determined that no matter how long it took, I would prove it to him. Anxiousness coiled in my stomach, but I leant close and chose bravery, brushing a kiss to his misshapen mouth as if sealing his words and making them another vow.

I brushed, but he devoured. His lips took over a delicate caress and kissed, hard and demanding. I was _his_; he was branding ownership in every fierce motion, and I allowed him, melting against the strength of his body and clinging with willowy arms. I knew where this must lead, and even as modesty hinted nervousness, I refused to draw away. _I_ kissed harder and more adamant; _I_ pulled him along the waves of desire and encouraged more.

His hands fisted in my nightdress and arms guided me toward the awaiting bed. Wanting, longing, unable to deny any longer, and I instigated onward with a lingering fear that reality would return and destroy. That fear kept me brave and never faltered as hands and lips forced me back onto the mattress, his body hovering above mine like a wingless angel.

Kisses only halted so that he could free me of my clothing; my nightdress, pantaloons, stockings, all layers were peeled away until I was exposed and willingly vulnerable to his ravenous stare. I'd watched that look during my bath, but when the mask had shielded, it hadn't seemed such a threat. Its harsh edges had been softened; now it was vividly pronounced, hunger and desire so powerfully entwined that I shivered to bear eyes alone. I was anxious for what hands and lips could inflict.

"I've looked from afar for so long," he revealed in husky tones. "An angel behind a mirror, an Opera Ghost watching in shadows, a husband gazing yet never taking. And now…what am I that I will finally exceed the limits of sight and be allowed _touch_?"

"A _love_," I offered in a soft whisper, shivering beneath his intangible gaze. "_My_ love."

"Oh? And is your love worthy to touch you, Christine? Am I wanted?"

The question carried so much weight. It held the difference between monster and man in its simple utterance, and from the depths of my heart, I replied, "_Yes_, yes, Erik, you are _wanted_."

Even if he didn't mutter doubt, he didn't fully believe, and I saw him hesitate still before he brought trembling fingers to the hollow of my throat. Delicate strokes from fingertips and then their smooth pads, along my collarbone and trailing tingles in their wake, onward to my breast. His harsh breaths were the only echo between us until his finger grazed my hardened nipple, the same one that bore the teasing of his tongue earlier, and then my cry surpassed the existence of sound, brought from my core and uninhibited when I yearned for more. He seemed intrigued by my every reaction, those mismatched eyes always studying me as if I were half an experiment and half the reality he was still uncertain he could share. Curiosity flickered amidst the longing, and he immediately sought more responses, more passion that _he_ was the sole cause of as he bent and took my nipple into his mouth again without barriers this time.

He moaned as loudly as I did, and fascination was forgotten in lieu of sensations. There was more gentleness this time than an earlier attempt, and I had to wonder if it was the sight of my skin that ignited an urge to be tender and treasure. Gentle and yet still, every lick from his eager tongue brought shivers down my spine and left me gripping his shoulders, frustrated by material when I longed for skin. Oh God, to feel his bare body, to have skin at my every whim and indulgence… To me, that would mean he was truly _mine_.

My fingers weakly tugged his jacket, urging its discard, and he permitted to jerk it free, his mouth never abandoning my breast or ceasing its seduction. Without that thick boundary to grant illusion, I was acutely aware of Erik's meager physique. He was not broad or large; he was actually frail, and it was so easy to forget when he was accomplished at exuding the aura of predator at all times. No, …he was only a man.

I hated clothing at that moment. Be rid of one layer and yet so many more obstructed my path to skin. With a whine of discontent I could not stifle, I gave up and simply slid my fingers into his collar, desperate to _feel_ him.

He stiffened and then sucked hard enough on my breast to make me cry out and almost give up my endeavor. Sensation spiraling to my center and making my body throb with a need that surprised me with its potency. No, no, I was determined that I would touch him as well.

With a conviction that shocked us both, I sat up and scooted beyond his gaping mouth's temptation. "Christine," he hissed. "If you refuse me now, I'll take you anyway. I can't bear this ache anymore!"

I wasn't certain he didn't mean it, but I had no intention of denying anything. I only wanted to even the game. "By your own doing, you've seen me bared to you for weeks. Don't I deserve the same? …I want to touch you, Erik. Please."

He did not speak a word, though I saw an unwanted shyness that made his fingers shake as they reached for his tie and sought to unravel it. Tie, vest, hesitation and then shirt. I watched him through the blush of my modesty, my curls clinging to my cheeks to hide its full pink glow and tumbling along the details of my body. I could act brave, but it wasn't soldered within me yet. It was blushes and trembles; it was nervous energy that made me fist my hands and deny their shake. I didn't know what I was doing, making decisions as I went along, and the idea of touching a man… I was terrified I'd do it wrong.

But as Erik parted his shirt and pushed it off, I forgot my apprehension. There was…damage. Why had I fathomed it would be any different? Scars…, as prominent as the ones on his face, but obviously created by violence not misfortune. Whips, fire, cruelty from pitiless mankind, and as I absorbed the horror of humanity, I could not contain compassion. It flickered in hinted tears even as I fought against it. Erik wouldn't want compassion; he'd mistake it for disgust as he once had in regard to his face. Shock and empathy, and he'd dubbed them revulsion at first glimpse. I wasn't about to fall to that again.

So before he could react with anger and outrage, I scooted close to his body and set my palms to his chest. It was impulsive and unexpected by both of us, or so said the violent shudder he gave with first contact. I didn't let him pull away. I slid my hands along his ribcage and weaved my bare arms about his torso, pulling him to me and molding my flesh to his. Chest to chest, frantic heartbeats in rhythmic syncopation, and I knew desire was my most valid weapon as he moaned and held me in return.

I rubbed my face against his neck, suffocating myself in his scent and his smooth skin, and my lips formed kisses like breathless devotions against his voice box. An angel's voice. I had loved it from first word. I longed for him to know that pertinent fact.

"I love you," I whispered against his throat and delighted in a moan that vibrated the skin beneath my urgent lips.

"Do you?" he asked in his next breath. "In spite of every sin I've committed against you and your innocence, every threat, every deception that brought us to this place? Oh, Christine, please say you forgive my damaged heart of its wanting. It loved, and I've never been accomplished at fighting its pull, not when _you_ were the light at the end of its path."

"Don't speak to me of sins or forgiveness," I pleaded, my words muttered within the crease of his neck. "Not now. Let love and desire be enough."

"Christine," he moaned. My name in husky consonants that blew along my brow and made me shiver and thrill in being the adoration on misshapen lips. It was as beautiful as music.

He was upon the mattress with me, and somehow in a desperate embrace, we ended ankles entwined, torsos flush and lungs inhaling in perfect unison. But as I placed more kisses to his collarbone, he grew impatient, thrusting the hardness of his ache against my bare body. Such a bold motion, such a revelation in a power that still gave me an undeniable fright. He was…big; it was awkward even to think the term and erupted another blush to stain my cheeks in pink.

He breathed my name again, sliding his hands down my spine to cup my backside and move us together in provocative rhythm. "Do you feel that, _ange_?" he gasped against my temple as his misshapen lips formed restless kisses. "Are you afraid of it?"

I gave a tentative nod and yet arched firmer into him. I might fear, but I was not going to let it control again.

"There's no reason for fear," he bid in soothing tones, the voice of my angel. How often had its timbre washed over me and stolen everything but a need to please him. That was my thought in its glorious sound: I wanted to please him and earn praise. More words, more pitches, more moments of being the vibration upon those golden cords. The edge of fear was dulled in such commitment, yet I couldn't stop quivering. It was half anticipation, but I did not tell him that. I let him continue to calm me with that voice.

"You were made for me," he promised amidst more flustered kisses. "Made to take me. Do you believe me, _ange_?"

I nodded again but panicked as he put space between us. Distance felt exposing and reminded me that I was bare. It felt like being ripped into two halves, skin that had been warmed by contact peeling apart and chilling into cold incompletion. I missed his scarred body against mine, but his gaze was my grounding point, his distorted face beautiful in its wanting. And I gave no protest as he captured my hand and brought it to his hardness, pressing my palm to its shape and shuddering with first contact despite barriers between skin.

He was the angel all over again, teaching with great care as he encouraged my caresses and curiosity. I was the one to push for more, eager for his pride, and breaking beyond his grasp, I slid my hand within his waistband and touched him, delighting in the gasp and rigid shiver that racked his entire frame. I loved it because in that single caress, he went from teacher to student and watched me with uncertainty and longing like hunger.

"I thought…I thought you were afraid of this," he stammered as if needing to speak to keep control.

"My angel told me not to be," I murmured back, "and I believe him. And yet now I think I must say the same. Don't be afraid, _ange_."

"Afraid?" He scoffed over the word but trembled to give himself away. "Imagine being afraid of the one thing I've wanted desperately for so long."

Breath choked his words as my strokes became surer and less timid, and I smiled a bit to feel him throb and grow harder yet in my hand. It was a strange power to have and kept me blushing to thrill in it so much. Did it make me brazen to enjoy every time I made a firmer caress and felt him shudder and groan? The almighty Opera Ghost in _my_ power, _my_ willing victim; how had I ever known fear for this man when one touch was his undoing and shattered him to mortal, ready to beg for more? It was an intoxicating magic, and perhaps he got tired of giving the reins solely to me because he slid his shaking hands along my thighs and stole a fraction of my control. It was impossible not to react to his touch, and despite my boldness, my eyes widened with questioning apprehension as he grazed my womanhood with his fingertips.

"Erik…?" I felt conviction falter and stilled my caresses to concentrate on his intent. Fear…no, I wouldn't allow fear. I focused on his uneven breaths existing between my gasps and then the sensation of his fingers slipping inside as if to brand that most intimate part of my body with his touch.

I couldn't contain a cry, losing hold of a bit bottom lip as he tentatively stroked. I watched his expressions with hesitant eyes, desperate for his reaction. I wasn't sure about a single detail, terrified by my body's uncontrollable responses to him, ashamed that he was touching me and learning how much I ached. But to my relief, he shuddered at my wetness and did not recoil; he made more adamant caresses and thrust fingers deep enough to make me cry out with a plea for more.

"My God, Christine, you _do_ want me," he huskily bid as if he hadn't truly accepted it until he had the proof coating his fingers. "You _desire me_. This disfigured face, this damaged body, you _want_ such things. But…how can you possibly?"

Even as he questioned, he never ceased touching, his fingers thrusting gently in and out and making me burrow another cry against his throat. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing, and I wondered what that meant. Had he done this before? I had been so sure he was as untouched as I was, but… His fingers moved faster and harder, and I had to pull my hand free to clasp his shoulders with fists, so sure that world was spinning as out of control as I felt.

He did not stop, but I refused to meet his inquisitive gaze, keeping my brow pressed to his chest and eyes screwed shut. "Erik," I whimpered the only word that I could remember, everything else a jumbled mess as he touched me with the same assuredness I'd seen a violin bear. He touched me with the desire he'd put upon that instrument, desire for _me_ forever repressed and finally allowed to be free.

I could not deny him, and as passion swelled beyond my grasp, I was afraid and clung to him as my protective angel. I didn't know how it would culminate and had to _trust_ him. It was the most faith I'd ever granted another human being.

One more deep thrust from those adamant musician's fingers, and I felt pleasure explode around me in stars. It was…_amazing_. It stole reason and everything but Erik, his skin beneath my taut fingers, his body as my anchor and refuge, his fingers growing gentle after my climax and grazing languid and unceasing.

As my senses tried to recover and return, he kissed the crown of my bowed head and insisted, "I have to have you _now_. I could barely hold back during that display. Oh, Christine, the way it feels to touch you…, your every cry and moan…, if I don't take you now, I'll lose any control I have left with memories alone."

I nodded numbly, only half-comprehending his words as I let him draw away and lifted hazy eyes to watch him finish undressing. Every article of clothing lost revealed more scares, but my unfocused eyes blurred skin into a new picture altogether. Erik, scars and damage as part of the whole, his flesh simply wanted against mine. The rest was inconsequential.

As the last layer fell away, I felt my skin heat to study his body, unable to quell my curiosity from staring with a bit lip to reveal my trepidation. He did not scold my scrutiny or my shyness; he only stared back at me with hinted amusement before he guided me to lie back upon the mattress. Curiosity was my vice and obviously expected; I even caught the smallest curve of a grin upon misshapen lips as he came to me.

"What?" I demanded and fought not to lose a shy giggle and dub myself a silly child.

"I adore you," he replied with that same grin and cupped my face in his palms to brush kisses to my lips. I shivered with delight and eagerly kissed him back. If that was his distraction, I never denied it even as I felt him shifting and lowering his body to mine. His hands left my cheeks with a final caress, adamant in their task as they traveled a slow path along my sides and gently parted my thighs. I never refused; I wanted him too much to dare.

Pain arrived simultaneous with his fierce thrust, and I cried out into his devouring mouth and pressed back into the mattress. Desire's cloud broke in places, enough to bring reality and comprehension, and my sudden thought that I'd just lost my virginity to the Opera Ghost… I actually found that I liked that thought and allowed him to continue forming kisses against my lips, each speaking of penance and apology. The Opera Ghost was my husband; for the first time, it felt _real_. And I was his eager and loving wife…

Erik was gentle. He moved in languid thrusts, shuddering over and over again, and pressed so flush together, I bore every one with him and wondered at the fact that every motion seemed to shake him, as if he couldn't believe reality and had to be convinced at every breath.

His kisses had been incessant, but as he followed desire and moved harsher, he dragged his lips away and urgently demanded, "Is this all right, Christine? Am I hurting you?"

I loved him so much at that moment that even if he had been hurting me, I would have lied and said no. But luckily, his careful endeavors resulted in renewed wanting on my part, and pain was only a dull ache in the background like a sore bruise.

"Don't stop," I begged shamelessly and arched to meet his thrusts. Desire was raw and consuming, but in its midst, I kept considering that this was my angel claiming my body, my Erik inside of me. Why had we fought this place for so long? It seemed silly now, the battle of an immature child. For the first time, I felt like a woman who knew her heart and its love. And no matter what, I was determined to keep it.

That was my final thought before desire surged beyond limits again. I wasn't afraid to surrender this time and even welcomed the spiral of sensation that began where we were joined and permeated through my limbs with wave after wave of ecstasy. It was intense and didn't seem to have a definite ending point when Erik was still inside of me, rocking my body with his nearing peak.

The shout he gave sent tingles down my spine. It was as beautiful as any song lyric he'd ever sung as angel or man, full of passion and brilliance and at its core, _love_. I heard his heart's revelation in that one uncontrollable sound and pressed my grin to his neck in kisses.

Time tripped from seconds to minutes, and though flustered breaths and lingering sighs broke silence's shroud, we didn't move away from each other. We held on with arms and legs interwoven, inseparable as twined threads and made bliss continue a little longer.

When Erik finally disentangled, I felt soreness, but beyond that, I felt an empty ache as my body once again longed for his to fill it. I wondered if it would always be that way, that I would only know love's completion with him buried within me, making us truly one being.

But no. We were no longer one, but hearts were bound eternally. They could speak love in terms just as powerful, and at the urging of mine, I caught his arms and drew him to lie beside me. Since one night of yielding to sleep in bed with me, he'd again chosen his chair and distance. I wouldn't allow that tonight or ever again.

He acquiesced, no words spoken, and as he set his unmasked face upon the pillow, I noted that though he conceded to my nearness, he went rigid as I wrapped my arms about his bare torso as if touching skin rattled him so completely. He wouldn't meet my eyes, avoiding a gaze, and though it created little wisps of worry, I decided to take what was offered tonight and set my cheek to his heartbeat, thudding unsteady within its distorted cage.

Not even a heart could have an undamaged casing. The skin above was scarred by burn marks, and I hated humanity's cruelty, wondering if it was intentionally done. Burn the spot above his heart as if he didn't even have the right to _feel_.

Tears threatened with the thought, but I held them back with all my might and turned to lay a tender kiss to the place instead. It deserved to know only affection and reverence from now on.

Words were never granted, never a goodnight or declarations of love. Soon I felt him relax against me, and I knew the instant he fell asleep. Words had no choice then but to remain as question marks in my mind. It was a long time before I joined him in sleep's realm, and when I did, I had a nightmare of awakening alone. Ridiculous when we were locked in a room on a ship in the middle of the ocean, but sense never existed in dreamscape. Alone and brokenhearted, I prayed it wasn't intuition's whisper again. 

* * *

><p>When I awoke, it was out of the clutches of my nightmare and so vivid that I believed it was real. I panicked further without Erik's body beside mine. I <em>was<em> alone, but thankfully, my missing husband hadn't gone far. He sat on the edge of the mattress, his bare back facing me and scripting the horror story of his life in too many scars to count.

His head hung low in his hands, his posture hunched and screaming shame. I could feel it thick with guilt in the gap between us. It suffocated my next breath and bubbled fear in my lungs. Yet again, I'd attempted brave and bold and followed my heart, and yet again, I was terrified it would backfire and destroy everything to rubble.

Trembling through my limbs, I reached one quivering hand from my blankets and tentatively set my fingertips to his scarred back. He started immediately, jerking wide, horrified eyes to my observation as if I were a blameworthy child. Quick, abrupt as if he'd forgotten I was there, and then as he took in my surprise, I noted how his gaze was drawn to my bare shoulders peeking above the blanket, drawn and held one moment before he darted about and put his back to me again.

"Erik…" I was tentative, uncertain of the thoughts in his head. He was so good at walls whenever I wanted to see through transparent curtains instead. In truth, I was full of doubts myself; bravery was so new and terrifying to uphold. What if I faltered? What if in this second when he needed assurance and an open heart most, I failed? He had chosen my potential for me long ago and knew disappointment when I couldn't live up to it. I was afraid that would be the case now.

Inching close, I brushed my hand to his back again, feeling him tense and yet not pull away this time. It was encouragement and made a hand a precursor to a cheek as I rested my head against his scarred skin.

"What's wrong, _ange_?" I gently bid, trying to use his trick. Soothing tones from a loved voice. I wasn't good at it; _my_ angel's voice only came when I sang, so I had to supplement with touch and grazed my fingers along his spine as coaxing.

He released a harsh breath, one I hadn't realized he was holding, and inhalation echoed against my ear before he finally spoke. "I've taken everything from you now, haven't I, Christine? Your life, your freedom, your heart, your body. All tainted by my affliction and repugnant soul. I took, …and now you have nothing left."

"That's not true," I concluded, still stroking his spine. "Not entirely. You took, but you also gave in return. You've forgotten that part. A heart for a heart, and nothing else matters as much."

Another harsh exhalation, and he whispered, "Do you regret loving me, Christine? You see the damage, _always_ damage spread out before you; you _touch_ it for God's sake! And do you now regret giving yourself to it?"

"To _you_," I corrected. "I have _no_ regrets, _ange_."

"But I am a monster. Monsters are ugly."

"That is subjective. Everyone has a different perception, and I…" My lips curved into a smile against his back. "I find you _beautiful_ and _desirable_. Haven't I proven as much? You felt my wanting. You can't possibly consider that a deception. …I've never known anything like that." Honesty made my cheeks redden as memories of my uninhibited responses spun before my inner eye. To cry out so brazen and without restraint… But my same points of abashed shyness became Erik's groan, rumbling low and vibrating my cheek.

"Then you _did_ find pleasure, and I didn't imagine it because I wanted it so much," he concluded, breathless and laden in a delighted shock that I savored as I slid my stroking hand along his ribs and about to his chest. He caught its pursuit and held it to his heart, bending to brush misshapen lips to my knuckles.

Though my blush remained, without his eyes upon me, I could find scant bits of bravery and softly asked, "Had you…done that before?"

"You truly ask such a thing?" he scoffed with the flutter of a chuckle.

"Well, …you seemed to know what you were doing when you touched me," I justified and ducked my brow against his back as my blush deepened its hue.

He chuckled again, and I nuzzled his spine as I relished the sound and the knowledge that I could cause it. "I'm glad I seemed such a Don Juan," he teased. "The truth, as shameful as it is: I studied the subject in books. I wanted to please you, Christine. I hoped that if I could give you such ecstasy, you would forget _who_ and _what_ was its cause and it wouldn't matter that I was scarred and unworthy."

I shook my head and decided, "I think the scars made it all the more brilliant."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, because the scars _make_ you Erik, my husband and the only one allowed to touch me so intimately. _They_ made me unable to forget who gave me pleasure, and I'm grateful for that. I didn't want to forget."

I felt his smile as he brushed his lips to my knuckles again, but I wanted more than that. Drawing my claimed hand free, I made a teasing caress down his chest and lower, sliding within the barrier of blankets to touch him. I still felt awkward, and yet to hear his immediate moan and feel how swollen and ready he already was, I whimpered softly and let impulse guide my touch without timidity to make me stumble.

"Christine, …don't do that unless…"

"Unless I want you?" I finished for him and pressed determined kisses to his scarred back. "And if I _do_ want you, may I caress at my will?"

"Yes, God, yes!" he exclaimed and arched against my eager hand. "You want me…" He spoke it as if needing to hear the words and their assurance.

"I want you," I repeated for him. "I _ache_ for you."

Erik moaned at my admission and suddenly drew my hand free. I never had the chance to be disappointed as he abruptly turned and caught me in his arms, searching for my lips and kissing hard. I couldn't kiss back because I was smiling too brightly, so I let him do the kissing and simply wrapped him in my arms as desire ensnared us in its web all over again.


	5. Chapter 5

OK, guys, here is chapter five! For anyone who is interested, I posted information on my website as well as Facebook author page about our Magic Flute performance this April. Come out and see me as the Queen of the Night. Last I heard, our costumes are going to have a Lady Gaga theme, and yesterday's news was that I might have to sing high F's in platform boots! Should be interesting, and balancing may or may not be more impressive than the music! :)

Chapter Five

The day we docked on America's coast was the first time I saw the sun in weeks of confinement. I had to squint to endure its glare as Erik led me by too many staring sailors onward down the gangplank and onto solid ground. My knees shook to find stability again, and for a few steps, I had to relearn balance. One would think only the opposite true with the sway of waves, but unmoving earth felt awkward and wrong. I was overwhelmed and dizzy; the sun too garish, the land too firm, the world too loud.

There were dozens of people upon the dock: other sea-faring strangers, fishermen, poorly-dressed people crowded near ships to purchase the daily catch. My inquisitive eyes took in every detail, and I clutched Erik's arm a bit tighter. I felt as out of place as I knew he did. But this wasn't France anymore. Neither of us had a place, and that held a modicum of fright.

Erik deposited me in a hired carriage with a fond, assuring stroke to my cheek before he went back for our things. I knew how much the violin meant to him, more than my gowns and accessories. He would never have chanced it being stolen in our absence. So I was resigned to wait, sitting back on the plush seat and peeking out the carriage window with shaking fingers gripping the curtains.

People moved so fast, faster than upon Paris' streets, and I felt oddly nostalgic for our little cabin on the ship where time had stood still and held its place.

Weeks together, and most minutes were spent wrapped in each other's arms. The memories brought a smile to my lips and a blush to my cheeks.

My husband was a wonderful man; that was what I had learned over the course of our voyage. I had been too young and naïve to fully appreciate what he had offered when we had suffered our distinct roles back in Paris' opera house. I hadn't realized _anything_ about love or life. Love had been sugarcoated fairytales, and real love was just that: _real_. Erik loved me, and I now wished I had let him do so ages ago and spared us the hardships in between.

Perhaps having only each other and a locked room forced realizations to the surface. But it also soldered every wayward emotion within my heart. I loved a man with a disfigured face and a suspicious past and didn't care about anything but making him smile and laugh, being the subject of hungry, desire-laced stares and finding ecstasy in his arms, marveling over his genius and virtuosic talents. I gave up the bad for the good and couldn't regret it when I saw the change love brought to him. He rarely lost his temper or chose melancholy and doubt, not with my constant assurances to chase every shadow away. He didn't even wear the mask in my presence; seeing him in it as we'd docked had made him into a stranger and left me impatient for privacy with tingling fingers eager to remove it again.

A husband, a new life, …and a baby. I hadn't told Erik, not a single hint, but I was nearly certain it was true and I was with child. Well, of course frequent bouts of lovemaking _must_ have a result! And we could barely keep our hands from each other's bodies, eager to touch and tease at every second. The barricades we'd kept in place for so long were gone, and now we could steal bliss and let it tingle our tongues with its deliciousness. I called myself naïve yet again for running for so long from desire. It was a potent drug, but it was nothing worthy of fear when Erik was its starting and ending point. He ignited the spark and made a flame into an inferno, and I willingly let myself be burned alive.

A child… My trembling hand pressed protectively to my flat stomach. Of course, there was no visible proof, nothing to whisper the secret, and I knew I had no right to keep it hushed for long. But…I wasn't sure _how_ Erik would accept the news. He'd hinted back on the ship that this was to be a real marriage and had even spoken the word 'child'. But I was able to decipher him quite well, getting better at it with each day's passage, and I knew he still carried guilt and blame, the emotions I denounced with every freely-granted kiss. He could not fully forgive himself, and I had a premonition that a baby was not going to be accepted with the same joy I felt. He might very well call our child a monster, and that would break my heart.

"Let's go," Erik called curtly up to the driver a few minutes later as he closed himself into the compartment with me. His precious violin was cased and cradled beneath his arm, and I arched a taunting brow to observe how carefully he set the case upon the seat, making certain no jostle could knock it to the floor.

"You _did_ collect my things as well, didn't you?" I questioned with the hint of a giggle. "I mean you haven't left my best gowns to a ship full of lewd sailors?"

"Of course not," he remarked back with the new lightness I was coming to expect and enjoy. No more sharp snapping first and regretful apologies later. "They are in a trunk strapped to the back of the coach."

"While your violin gets a prime seat and tender treatment?"

"Until we acquire a piano, it is my sole instrument and one of the few good things to come from home."

I grinned and inquired back, "And am _I_ another of the 'good things' from home?"

"Undoubtedly, hence why you get a seat in the cab and are not tied to the back of the coach as well."

A grin became a giggle, and inching closer to his side, I lifted my hand to his mask.

"Ah, ah," he stopped me, catching my wrist and dragging my hand to his lap. "Let's not start rumors before we've endured even an hour in a new country. The mask alone caused enough buzz on the docks. Should a monster's face be seen in the carriage windows, we might start a mass panic."

Undeterred, I pulled free and hastily reached for the curtains, pulling them tightly closed so that not even a thin streak of light had a right to peek inside. Then the mask became my target again, and though I still glimpsed unease, he allowed me to discard it and expose scars. Yes, this image would cause chaos and panic to the unsuspecting people walking the streets, but I looked and savored every crevice and distorted feature much more than an ordinary, unmarked face. This was far more glorious.

"You have spoiled me," he muttered as he leaned close and set tender kisses to my cheeks. "The past weeks with you were the most I've ever spent without the mask, and now wearing it again, I find it…constricting and uncomfortable, like it is suffocating me."

"It is," I agreed and sighed my delight when his mouth found the crease of my neck and burrowed its misshapen contours to skin that craved every distortion. How I longed for its bloated shape along every inch of my body!

"Please tell me we're on our way someplace where you can continue such kisses everywhere," I pleaded, blushing at my boldness. But I was learning to speak my thoughts, however salacious, and why? Because of the look I received from my husband as he lifted wide eyes to meet my gaze. It was heavy in lingering disbelief that I truly desired him and then a glowing adoration as he accepted that I spoke the truth.

"You little vixen," he finally found coherency to retort, and I watched him with furtive glances and that telltale blush. "Later I vow ample, indulgent kisses _everywhere_, _ange_."

"Later?" I protested with a grimace I could not deny. "What do you intend for us to do instead?"

But he obviously had his plans already in motion. "First, we are going to act like any normal, wealthy couple new to the country and rent a room in the nicest hotel in the city. Then as you make yourself comfortable, I will set out and find how to go about buying a real home. Something secluded and beyond the immediate bustle of the city. I'm sorry I cannot have a house built for you specific to my details, but there isn't time. We will have to settle for something already established."

"Old," I reiterated and nodded approval. "Perhaps it will have ghosts, the _real_ sort, not opera phantoms."

"It better not! I will not pose battle for my title! There is room for only one ghost in our lives."

"All right, no ghosts," I conceded. "But can't I explore the city while you attend your errand? I'm fascinated merely by the view we had from the dock. I would love to learn every detail."

His scars darkened with his expression, and kisses and sweet words were forgotten as quickly as they'd been uttered. "No, I do not favor that idea at all. I do not want you wandering foreign streets alone."

"I'll ask the hotel clerks for directions. Perhaps they can suggest a guide and then-"

"_No_, Christine," he snapped with a coldness I hadn't heard in weeks, and I jumped with a start and studied him beneath a furrowed brow, desperate to read his unease.

"But…why? I don't understand. I thought… Is this because you still fear I intend to run from you? …Please tell me you know my heart better than that by now," I begged and yet the fear would not quiet its incessant voice. "Erik, …please."

He picked up that arrogant, Opera Ghost guise and stung me with its aloof bitterness. "It is a realistic fear. We've only just arrived, and the world is open doors."

"But…you left me alone in the coach while you went back for the violin," I reminded, so sure I'd proven a point, but as he shook his head, I went numb.

"You give me too much credit. I paid the driver to keep you in the coach." He spoke the deception calmly, but I saw the self-blame in cracks in his demeanor. He knew he was wrong, and yet he'd done it anyway.

"Oh…?"

"Well, I couldn't chance losing my bride so soon after our arrival. And…besides, if you chose to run, you would be at a loss for where to go. I'd have to worry that you'd get into trouble in the less suitable districts of town." It was a flimsy excuse and given without genuine emotion. No, he was cold and detached, calculated in a way, and it left me hurt and fighting a rise of tears.

I ducked my head and tried to scoot away, but there was little space in the coach, and I felt Erik's eyes always on me. For the first time, I didn't want that gaze. It only brought disdain and despair. So he truly meant it when he'd threatened locking me in a cage, but that was before _everything_. …I'd been a fool to believe trust was possible for the Opera Ghost.

"Christine," he said after a moment, but I wouldn't raise my eyes, not when the flutter of lashes stirred tears and made them fall. "A compromise. When I return, I will take you out. We can go anywhere you'd like, explore as you said, perhaps have supper in a restaurant, _anything_ you wish."

It was indeed a compromise because I knew how much Erik did not enjoy being amongst other people, even catching the tightness of distaste in the offer, but I gave a flustered nod and accepted, still without a look. He probably was aware tears existed; he was always so attuned, but I could not bear the humiliation of showing it. I felt like a child crying because she didn't get her way, but the tears kept coming from a well within whether I wanted them or not.

Thankfully, we arrived at a hotel shortly after, and finally able to muster strength, I swiped the wet betrayers from my cheeks and glanced at my husband. He had been watching me sadly all the while, now hiding half his expression behind the mask, but I _felt_ more than I saw. And I had the hardly repressed urge to delight in his misery. He deserved it for his obstinacy and the doubts I was worried I'd never eradicate. He'd always mistrust, and I'd always bear the brunt of skepticism. It seemed our inevitable fate.

Our hotel was indeed the best in the city. Erik acted his haughty, confident persona to acquire our room, and I concluded he'd use the same façade to get our house. No fear, not a single crack despite the stares fixed on his mask and the agitation all around. He carried himself as if challenging them to find valid fault, and if I weren't still hurt from our exchange in the coach, I would have been proud.

Within minutes, we were escorted to a lovely suite, and minutes more, Erik abandoned me with a promise once again to take me out when he returned. No loving farewell or tender kiss, nothing but apprehension. I was suddenly relieved to be _out_ of his presence.

Sinking down onto a brocade-lined chaise, I dropped my head in my hands and rubbed aching temples. I had quite the battle spread before me. On the ship without interference from the world, quelling his persistent doubts had been easy, but now…I wasn't sure _how_ to prove myself when he doubted everything I felt, everything I said, everything I did. I could only hope that my actions would prove something and gain inklings of trust. Little by little.

I didn't try to go out on my own. He hadn't locked me in, but I had a suspicion after the deception with the coach driver that the hotel clerks were just as paid to watch me. I only hoped he hadn't given some ridiculous lie, called me crazy or medically-unsound to explain _his_ paranoia.

It was a luxury to be in a decent-sized room with its own separate bathroom and running water. Savoring the silence, I luxuriated in a bath, hoping to rid myself of my tension and then dressed to go out with Erik's promise keeping hope intact.

I chose a deep purple, silk gown, as elegant as if we were to attend an opera production. Over-dressed rather than under in this case. I was unaccustomed to wealth and being on top of the status pyramid rather than the bottom. What little time I'd spent in the de Chagny mansion had given me glimpses, and from what I'd spied, the rich never went out in casual attire. Always their best as if an impression must be made in every mediocre outing.

As I pinned my curls before the vanity, thrilled to finally have a mirror and a reflection to look back, I observed every nuance and tried to dub myself the wife of a wealthy gentleman. It was difficult when I looked and saw the same Christine in another opera costume ready to play another role.

My eyes drifted to my stomach and lingered, fabricating the swell to come and trying to imagine its picture. A child, growing even now, a child that was a product of love even if not trust. I looked and saw nothing, but it was real and meant more hope, hope for the happy ending I wanted yet could not find. Without hope, we'd have nothing. I was determined that _hope_ would be our saving grace.

I had just finished pinning my hair when I heard the door, and rushing into the small sitting room, I met Erik with a hesitant smile. He halted mid-step and simply stared, his admiration vivid and racing along my appearance to savor every detail. He made me feel beautiful with a single look.

"Well?" I inquired when he had yet to speak, but my smile rooted and blossomed as I had to bluntly ask, "Did you find a home for us?"

It took a long moment for the question to meet comprehension, his gaze still trailing the neckline of my gown and making me shiver to see flames flicker in blue and green. "Oh, …I met with a gentleman who sells houses, and tomorrow he is going to show me a few prospective choices. I may not be _building_ the house, but I'm determined to find the next best thing."

As he spoke, he stepped closer, his hunger never dimmed from my observance. His eyes spoke desire in blatant terms, languid in their perusal as they trailed my jaw and the column of my throat and made me tremble as if I'd been _touched_ instead.

"Erik," I warned halfheartedly.

"You are so beautiful," he breathed in husky consonants. "How in the world did I gain fortune enough to have _you_ as my wife? I _will_ make you happy, Christine; I vow it as adamantly as my love. The argument we had in the coach, …it will mean nothing once we have our home and a life of our own. It will be like it was at sea. We were happy then without the world to touch us. I _will_ make you happy," he promised again, and though I nodded, I despaired in his words. He still believed in secluding us from life, that that was the only way to keep my love. What would that mean for us…and for our child?

His eyes were heavy in desire's haze, brushing their heated gaze upon my skin, and he commanded with the telltale hoarseness upon his voice, "Take off my mask, _ange_."

"I thought…we were going out," I stammered, unsure which outcome I wanted to win. When he looked at me that way, my knees quaked and my body heated and ached. It was inherent.

"How could we possibly when you stand before me dressed like that? I have to have you. I can consider nothing else. You won't deny me, will you? …No," he answered for himself, "you won't. I can practically _feel_ your wanting as potent as my own. Take off my mask. Show your husband that you desire him and _only_ him forever."

There was more to it than that. I felt…_fear_. He was genuinely afraid, and I didn't know why. Was he afraid I'd changed my mind and didn't want him anymore? …Or was this all a ploy and fear came with the concept of going out? Was he using desire to keep us indoors and as detached from the world as ever?

"Christine…?"

I made a choice right then. I _chose_ my husband yet again, over the world and freedom, over fresh air and stars. I _chose_ to surrender everything and obeyed his command, ridding him of his mask and giving him what he wanted without argument.

He grinned, and I saw relief as much as appreciation in the instant before he swallowed me in lips and arms, clutching me to him as though he'd been terrified he'd lost me already. No, no, I longed to tell him he'd _never_ lose me, but his lips were too fierce, burying me in kisses I eagerly met.

All my preparations never seemed a waste of time when my gown became a wrinkled pool of material on the carpet and my carefully-arranged hair grew mussed and disheveled. After all, who was I eager to impress if not the mask-less man before me with fire exuding from every touch his hands granted? He wasn't patient or gentle, and with earlier anger still looming in echoes, I did not protest or ask for more as he held me to the mattress and entered in one deep thrust that brought me ecstasy in a shout and shudder. It was impossible to stave off pleasure when he was eager to give it and knew exactly how to drive me over the brink.

He took his time after that, rekindling the flame with every deep, languid thrust and always gazing at me with those intent eyes. So often I caught him staring at me as if looking was as essential as touching. This time as he stared, I stared, losing myself in shades of blue and green more brilliant than the world should know. Sliding my palms into his, I wove fingers and made an unbreakable grasp, unending, joined eternally. Why must he still doubt when I placed all I was at his mercy, willing and desperate, finally letting desire and love fly free? I gave him everything, and yet he still needed more. I was terrified I had nothing else to give, not enough to make doubts cease.

I kept his stare, even as passion built again and swallowed me in its wave. I let him see and live it with me, and as I trembled and whimpered, recovering my senses, he matched my intimacy, holding my gaze as he reached his climax, never even blinking. His guttural cry was golden and brilliant, delighting my ears. We still stared into each other's eyes, and I felt so close to him, so deeply in love without a single regret or hesitation. I _needed_ him to see that.

"Erik…"

"I love you," he spoke the words for me and caught them again in a kiss.

We didn't leave the room that night, and I wasn't given the chance to mention it again. He kept me occupied over and over again with never a chance to come up for a breath, but I didn't care. He was all that mattered; everything else could wait until later. 

* * *

><p>The next day went the same as the one before. Erik left me in our elaborate room with a promise to take me out when he returned, a promise only half-broken by immediate kisses and a bed instead of city streets and people. It was difficult to find anger and a grudge for his obvious confinement when he was so eager to please me, desperate to devour and forget everything but love and desire. How could I remember that I had been cursing his doubting nature in my thoughts an hour before when he came at me with those hands I adored and caresses that left me crying out for fulfillment? Curse him doubly for using lovemaking to avoid anything he didn't want to deal with!<p>

By the third day of this pattern, I no longer asked for a promise before he left, knowing how pointless it was. I lingered in bed, cuddled beneath the covers as he bustled about getting ready to leave and gushing with the words that he had never gotten to speak the night before. No, …then there had only been kisses and moans.

"I think this is the one!" he exclaimed as he rushed about, collecting random discarded garments from around the bed where they'd landed in their hasty removal. I knew he was looking for his tie and had only a fleeting memory of yanking it free and throwing it with a desperation to kiss his throat. …Now where would my lackluster aim have landed it?

He finally gave up and went to his trunk to find another, continuing in his exuberance, "Of all the houses I've seen, this one is the best by far! It has a large porch with white spindles; everything looks handcrafted and freshly painted. I think you will adore it, Christine! Your very own doll's house to decorate to your content!"

He sought my approval with urgent eyes, and I grinned at his beaming, mask-less face. I didn't tell him that I found him adorable when he was so enthusiastic. It was something I had never seen unless it was an eagerness to show me a new piece of music. This…was something new altogether, and I felt a bit of his bliss tickle my skin and seep inside. It was impossible not to share it.

"And when will it be ours?" I pushed in my anticipation.

"It's already empty of its previous owners. They went out west to search for silver or some other ridiculous nonsense like that. I have an appointment for one more tour this afternoon, and if I sign the papers, it can be ours by tonight. What do you think?" He leaned across the bed as he spoke and set his elbows beside me.

I nodded eager approval as I kissed his hands and sought to memorize how beautiful happiness looked on his disfigured face. "And will you take me to see it as soon as it is ours?"

He hesitated before answering. "First thing tomorrow. It is a bit of a distance from the city. It would be quite late if we tried to travel when I return tonight, and without furniture, it won't be comfortable to spend the night on hard wooden floors."

A distance from the city… It wasn't surprising yet still erupted disappointment I quickly hid from sight as I decided, "Why not? We'll pack blankets and spread them out over the floors, and we'll sleep in the big, empty rooms and always remember our first night in our new home."

The idea delighted him. I saw even more excitement upon that face and cupped its distortions in my palms, brushing caresses to sallow skin and bone and adoring every nuance.

"Yes, yes, that is perfect!" he concluded, turning to set grateful kisses to my fingers. "Then as soon as I sign the papers, I will come for you with a coach full of blankets and whisk you off to your new palace, _ange_. How I cannot wait to show you!"

A quick kiss caught my lips, his tongue delving and twirling about mine and making me squirm before he drew back. I whined my wanting, but before I could reach for him and beg to delay his absence, he was on his feet, reaching for his mask and stealing the chance.

But my disappointment was obviously noted and shared as he cast me a ravenous look and vowed, "And rest today, _amour_, because if this is to be our first night in our new home, I intend to make it memorable. You will _not_ be sleeping very much. I plan to create even more wonderful memories so that when we are old, we can recant the tale together and recall how much love and desire exuded through every wall that first night. It will be the first page of our forever."

I savored the sound of such words and watched him go with an impatience for his return. It was about to seem such a long day! 

* * *

><p>By lunchtime, I knew something was wrong. I'd been lightheaded all morning, hoping the meal Erik had had brought up would help, but I felt out of sorts even with a full stomach. I tried to lie down, wrinkling my dress as I cuddled into blankets, but then the pains came. Cramping to the point of nausea and tears, and I trembled with fear as I clutched my stomach and prayed from the depths of my soul.<p>

"God, please don't take my baby," I sobbed the words aloud and pressed my palms against my abdomen. I was already in love with it. Despite everything, Erik's mistrust, the fact that I hadn't even shared the news, I _loved_ this child. It felt as real as everything else, and as I held my stomach, I imagined that the baby felt my love seeping through, cradling my child the only way I could.

The pains would not subside, and within the hour, I made a decision to seek a doctor. Erik would not be back until night by his own words, and I was not going to try to explain my situation to the hotel clerks who were all men and couldn't possibly understand. They'd probably think I was lying if Erik told them some fabrication to keep their eyes on me. No, I wouldn't chance it.

So even though sense posed arguments at every step, I bundled into a cloak, pocketed some coins from Erik's trunk, and decided to sneak out of the hotel. Clutching my belly beneath the cloak's folds, I carefully left my room, creeping into the hallway with relief that no guard was posted outside my door. That had to mean the clerks at the front desk were the culprits to my freedom.

There was only one way around that trap: I would have to use my stage flare and be someone else. Pain became dull in the background of a need to be free and hear assurances from a doctor's lips. I kept back in the corridor until I saw a group of ladies and gentlemen approaching. The rest was easy.

The clerks would be looking for a woman alone. I didn't give them that. I added myself into the group, even exchanging pleasantries with a couple ladies and grinning bright and unsuspicious until I made it past the lobby and out into the sun.

Fresh air! It was refreshing and renewing to my lungs. I took a deep, calming breath, noticing that my pains were fading as if all I needed was to breathe. But I wanted answers and proof that the baby was all right, and with Erik adamant to take us from the city, I knew this would be my only chance unless I told him. …I wasn't ready to tell him.

It wasn't hard to find a coach. A few waited outside the hotel to pick up guests. I asked to be taken to the best doctor in the city, carrying the façade of an heiress as if she were another part to play, and thankfully, I was never questioned as the coach rolled away down the crowded street.

I had only a flicker of guilt. Yes, I had deceived and snuck out, but I prayed to be back in my room again before Erik arrived to get me. I put the baby before everything else, and it felt like the right thing to do.

A line of patients had appointments with the doctor before me. As I anxiously watched minutes tick by on a lobby clock, I felt like a fugitive on the verge of being caught. No doubt Erik would have me pursued like one if he found me gone. Vows of love and our happy future would be taken as lies. I hated him a little for that. I couldn't remember a time when I wasn't under someone's protective eye whether it was his or Raoul's. It now left me awkward and agitated simply to sit in a medical building and await an appointment. As if I could do nothing on my own… It wasn't supposed to be like that.

Dr. Stevens was an old man with a grey beard and a kind smile. I liked him immediately. There were people in the world whose good nature exuded out of them and told that they were caring and gentle. Dr. Stevens was one of those people. He spoke enough broken French to attempt a conversation and filled in with fragmented Swedish and English. We managed well enough.

"You are certainly with child," the good doctor reported with an obliging grin. "But you already knew that?"

"I had my suspicions," I replied and tried to mirror his expression. It was difficult to retain a façade with him; perhaps his congenial spirit simply enticed a need for truth and honesty. When my smile fell, he didn't seem surprised.

"Are you not happy with this news?"

"Very happy," I insisted in a rush, and I meant it. "But…I'm not sure if my husband will share my joy. We…we've suffered much hardship to love each other, and…a baby might seem only another at the moment."

Dr. Stevens nodded sympathetically and suggested, "Perhaps if you meet the challenge with _your_ enthusiasm, it will help your husband see what a blessing a child is."

I bit my lip as revelations tickled my tongue and almost broke free of their own accord. Was it a deception to reveal truths to a doctor? But he was just that: a _doctor_, _my_ doctor, and didn't he need to know the truth to the situation he was dealing with? But the words felt so intimate, like a secret, and I ducked my eyes to allow them into the room with us.

"My husband…bears a disfigurement. He was born with facial deformities so severe that he wears a mask to conceal them. …Is there a great chance that our child will share the same fate?" Guilt tore at my chest as I conjured invisible blame from both Erik and our unborn child for revealing our misfortune.

Dr. Stevens mused on my news silently a breath, and I feared he was simply choosing polite words to confirm my own thoughts. "What is the chance the child will have blue eyes and dark curls like its mother? You are half of the whole as much as your husband is. It's impossible to say which half your child will favor. Your child may look like you, may share your husband's disfigurement, or a third possibility altogether, the child may take its father's good genes and look as your husband would _without_ the disfigurement. It is impossible for me to diagnose your husband without evaluations, but deformities…may be genetic or may simply be chance. I've learned in this profession that every child no matter the case is a gift. Make sure your husband knows _that_ first and foremost."

I agreed with his assessment and could only pray Erik would as well. "Thank you, Dr. Stevens. And…the pains I was having?"

"Not uncommon. However, if they continue, come back and see me. We wouldn't want anything to happen to your little one. I recommend avoiding stresses. You've only just come across the ocean; certainly, change is a major stress on the body."

Stresses…like sneaking out of a hotel as a deception and instigating my husband's paranoia by being out amongst people. I took a deep breath and tried as best I could to relax a tension coiled through every muscle. But I still had to make it back to our hotel room before Erik, …and there appeared tension all over again.

"You will come back and see me, won't you?" the doctor requested. "It is important to monitor your progress, and after what you've told me, it might be an advantage to have your child delivered by a doctor who is informed of the potential complications."

I nodded agreement and replied, "I will do my best. I don't go out very much; my husband prefers for us to share a solitary lifestyle as I'm sure you understand considering…"

"Of course, but sometimes help is needed, Madame, and sometimes it is just as important to have trusted friends and allies as it is to be alone. I think once your husband is told about the child, he will be more adamant about your well-being than shutting out the world."

"I hope you're right." I wanted to agree, but I knew Erik's doubts inside and out, and a baby might instead play _into_ his desperation for solitude if there were a chance it could look like him.

I left the doctor's office with the relief I wanted, enough to know the baby was all right and wasn't a figment of my imagination. No, …it was real and confirmed. The start of our future: a house, a child. I hope Erik saw the blessings I did.

I didn't bother to sneak back into the hotel. The clerks would be on alert for someone leaving, not returning, so I didn't put on a façade or play a game. I simply walked up to our room alone. …No, not alone anymore, I thought with a fond caress to my belly. A baby… It was the last pleasant thought I had.

"Christine!"

Erik's frantic shout startled me the instant I entered the room as he rushed to meet me, clasping my forearms tight and searching my face with urgent eyes. I knew he'd see guilt; it was my first response before worried trepidation. He'd said nightfall! It wasn't even evening yet!

"You…you're back early," I awkwardly stammered as his masked face leered coldly and churned memories from the past to the surface.

"Where were you?" he growled, his grip fierce. "I came back to get you. I was so impatient to return and bring you with me to our new home. And I found you gone! _Gone_! You weren't to go traipsing about the city alone! You were to stay here and wait for me! Now tell me: _where were you_?"

The question struck as violent as any attack and brought immediate tears to my eyes. Tears were always so near lately, one thought from reality, and I hated their presence as they choked my words and made me sound weak.

"I…went for a walk. I wanted to see the city before we left it. I thought to be back before you, so you wouldn't be upset." I couldn't tell him of the baby, not_ now_, not _like this_.

"A lie? You would have returned before me and _never_ told me you'd been out?" he demanded, and I cringed. One half-truth spun into a web of deceit so quickly!

"No, no, I would have told you! I-"

He shook me a bit and made me halt all words. "And have you been out through the city _every day_ as I've been searching for a home for us? As I've put my mask on display and endured the leering and whispers? All I've done for _you_, and you've been deceiving me the whole time?"

"_No_," I insisted and spoke it with conviction. "Of course not."

"And how am I to believe that when I only just found you missing?" Mismatched eyes blazed and bore into me as if he were able to pick apart lies from truths, and I wondered if he were a good enough magician to simply _see_ the secret of our child through a gaze.

But with a growl of frustration, he let me go so harshly that I swayed on my feet and clutched the chaise for support with one hand while the other pressed protectively to my stomach.

I knew I had another choice placed before me at that moment. I could run away, lock myself in the bathroom until his rage cooled and pray for it to be over with minimal damage. I could crumble to a heap of skirts and cry like a child, beg forgiveness, vow away every inkling of freedom I could ever hope to possess. _Or_ I could stand my ground. I'd faced his rage on the ship with nowhere to go and I'd won love from its ugly starting point. As I sought to tell myself, I'd done nothing wrong enough to deserve his fury. For better or worse, I had married this man; I _loved_ this man. He had a temper, and it was naïve to believe love had cured him of its possession. I knew I had to learn how to manage it instead of cowering at every angle.

"I didn't leave you, Erik," I softly spoke, cringing at the telltale waver I couldn't keep from my voice. "I went for a walk, and I _came back_. I had no intention of running from you or breaking your heart. _I love you_. I want to be with you. Please believe me. I've never been as honest as I've been in these past weeks. I'm not lying when I say I want our life together wholeheartedly and without reservation. _Please_, Erik. I'm sorry."

His back was to me, every muscle rigid and carrying rage for him, but as he inhaled, I saw a tremble quake their surface. How much of his tirade was based in fear? How much was a terror that I had left for good and every dream was lost to him? Here was a man without a blessing in his life until now, deceived by everyone and everything _including me_ in months past. _I_ gave him hope, but just as hastily, I could be the reason it was taken away.

"Erik…" Tentative footsteps brought me to his quivering shape, and with only the slightest hesitation, I slid my arms about his waist and hugged myself to his back, feeling him shudder and shake as he exhaled and set trembling palms atop my woven arms. I pressed kisses to those tensed muscles and felt them relax with my effort and sag against my form until I wondered if my strength was what held him upright.

"I'm sorry," I bid, squeezing tight and making more penitent kisses against his shoulder blades.

"I thought I'd never have this again," he hissed out, and I heard tears upon his cords. "I was sure you'd finally run away, and I knew I could search and search but might never find you. And if these past weeks were built in lies… I could barely fathom it!"

He loosened my hold to turn and face me, and I glimpsed the tears caught between his eyes and his mask. I did not pause as I lifted its intrusion away and let tears fall free if only to catch them with my fingertips.

"I love you," I vowed again and prayed he saw that it was true. "I never left you. I _wouldn't_. _Please_. I want to go to our new home as you said and sleep on its wooden floors." I smiled as I leaned on tiptoe and brushed my mouth to his malformed cheek, lingering a breath in its sallow center to taste his tears on my lips and kiss them away. For as strong of a man as the _Opera Ghost_ was, my Erik was still the vulnerable child, terrified to have his world pulled out from under him and any love he could find stolen away.

"I have a coach waiting downstairs," he bid, hesitating a moment to turn and graze his lips to mine before he sadly reported, "I thought I'd need it to go and search for you. Oh, Christine, thank God you're _here_! Please promise me that this is not an illusion. I'm terrified that you're still gone, that your absence left me shattered to pieces and I'm imagining holding you right now. I need you so much to keep my sanity. You are my _life_."

I knew he was not exaggerating. He had no life without the dreams we'd created together and the love I'd finally give him. Before that, what did he have but dark catacombs and music?

"I am here," I promised, "and I am real." A slight smile lifted my lips and took melancholy away in fractions. "And you bought me a home. I don't remember what it feels like to have a home, not since my father was alive."

"My home was a cave," he reminded, and I saw hints of my happiness rubbing off on him. Perhaps the doctor was right; if I approached every challenge and new situation with bliss, Erik would gain some of it by default. "I don't know what a home is supposed to feel like."

I beamed as I replied, "We'll learn together. Now…can we go? I can hardly wait to see it!"

He nodded, and though misshapen lips had touches of my grin, I still felt his somberness and knew I had a long road ahead. Doubt was always going to be an affliction like a disease carried in his heart. I could love him for eternity, and he'd still question. But…I had a flicker of hope that once the shock of the baby wore off and we had a full life and a family, doubt might linger but not as prevalent as love.

Masked and ready to go, Erik kept my hand tight in his as he led the way out of the hotel. The sun was setting in vibrant colors between the stretching heights of tall buildings, and as autumn was in approach, the evening meant a chill in the air that left me curling tighter into my cloak. I hoped our new home had fireplaces, cleaned and prepared for use because I certainly didn't feel like shivering on a hardwood floor all night!

The cold temperatures and affluence in this part of the city was a calling card for the destitute. As Erik guided us toward the coach, I noticed the number of beggars on the corners, huddled in the alleyway alongside the hotel, crouched on the sidewalk's curb. Unfortunate people, and I recalled days of being in their place after my father's death, weeks before I'd been taken into the ballet, weeks spent begging for coins and starving for a meal. Their plight tugged at my heart, and as I gazed fixedly at a poor mother wrapping her little boy beside her in a tattered blanket, I distantly touched the spot where my own child resided and fought back tears.

"Christine…"

I should have known Erik would be overly attentive to every emotion I did not hide, but as I lifted my tearful eyes, our moment was interrupted.

Someone tugged on Erik's sleeve. I saw the small hand and jerked my eyes as he did to his addressor with a modicum of curiosity that quickly became perturbation.

A girl not much older than I was, clothed scantily despite the chilled air. She gave her best suggestive look despite the presence of Erik's mask and _me_ at his side. "Evening, sir. I couldn't help but notice you and thought perhaps you'd be interested in what I have to offer you. My prices are low and affordable. For not much at all, I could give you pleasure the likes of which you've never imagined, certainly do things your little honey would call lewd and appalling."

A prostitute soliciting for clients and having the gall to approach claimed gentlemen if their pocketbook looked big enough! I knew I shouldn't be surprised, but I was. And to dare approach my Erik? I felt livid with the very idea and stared with a cold glare.

"Go and find someone else to bother," Erik insisted as if she were no more than a nuisance.

"Now wait a minute," the girl cooed. "Perhaps a preview could be arranged. If you favor masks, I don't mind playing along. _Anything_ you want. I bet your sweetie doesn't say that. I know a man's appetite, and for the right price, I can indulge all your fantasies."

The nerve! I narrowed my glare on her painted face and snapped with a rush of irritation, "I am his _wife_, not his _sweetie_, and if he has any fantasies, they are _mine_ to fulfill."

A deep chuckle resounded around us, and I shot my gaze to Erik, finding him so amused that one chuckle became a few and made my annoyance soften. "Evidently, I am in high demand," he teased. "How unusual and interesting! Fascinating even!"

The girl still watched us, and before she could devise her next approach, I dragged Erik toward our coach, my cheeks pink and burning in the chilled wind with their abashed blush. _Jealousy_! I had never had cause to _be_ jealous before, but just a single notion of Erik accepting that prostitute's proposal, of _her_ in _my_ place, making love with him as if it were _her_ right, it made my blood boil!

So many emotions lately! And all utterly staggering! I had to wonder how much of this had a root in pregnancy, or maybe love just inspired bold retorts and jealous snapping at random women. But I suddenly understood why Erik wanted to disassociate me from too many would-be rivals for his place. If I had to be the one to constantly battle for _him_, I would want to steal him away as well!

The second we were closed in the coach and it lurched to go, I dove at him. He was still chuckling softly, had yet to stop, but I yanked his mask away and found his distorted face. _Mine_. Every scar and unorthodox feature, _mine_. The space where no nose existed, the deep sockets of his eyes, the bloated upper lip, all _mine_. And without a single pause, I began to cover every feature with frantic kisses as if staking my claim. How dare that girl proposition _my_ husband? And how dare she think he'd agree?

"Christine…" His tone was amused and then caught in a moan as I let my tongue lick at the details I kissed. "Good Lord, but you are determined!"

"You're _mine_," I whined and knew I sounded like a spoiled child.

"Of course, always _yours_. Don't you dare say you thought I would agree to that harlot's offer! _You are_ my fantasy…" He shuddered and lost another moan before insisting, "How can you kiss my face like that? It's…repulsive, and you kiss it like you adore it, like its ugliness arouses you."

"It does," I admitted with an unending blush as I straddled his lap and continued with eager kisses, whispering in between, "How can you keep doubting me when I prove to you that I adore you? Erik, …did you think that girl was pretty?"

Another chuckle that shook us both with its deep-set rumble as he gushed, "The jealousy in you! Who would have ever thought it? I never believed _I_ was something worthy of possessiveness, nor that my beautiful wife would be ready to shout and claw to keep me! What an interesting day this has proven to be! To go from fearing I'd lost my wife to being branded like cattle with her very name as the seal. Christine, surely you know that _no one_ could do what you are at this moment. Kissing this face and making it beautiful. Bringing a corpse to life with every caress."

"Don't call yourself a corpse," I insisted, cupping his cheeks in my palms and brushing more kisses to an absent nose. "I don't like when you say such things. You are a living, breathing man, and a corpse belongs in the grave. A corpse can't love me."

"Or desire you," he conceded, catching my hips in his hands and fitting me atop him. Even through layers, I could feel his aching need and did not hesitate to arch against it. "And I _clearly_ desire."

"And that is _mine_ as well," I declared without hesitation. "Just as much as your face."

"Yes, _amour_, you own every scarred detail of my body. Make your claim; brand me _everywhere_, _ange_. Make it permanent and seep through to the bones beneath. I am _yours_; I will _never_ be anyone else's."

I grinned with pride over such a gift. _Mine_. But the entire evening had left me troubled and uneasy. Perhaps I had just never considered having to fight to keep Erik. When I'd been on Raoul's arm, there had always been a possibility of losing him; so many envious stares, so many jealous girls longing to be in my place. And perhaps it proved that it had never been real love if I hadn't cared enough to _be_ jealous.

With Erik, jealousy hadn't seemed even a consideration. I wasn't a fool. I knew it was unlikely anyone would willingly choose to want my position. Wife to a disfigured man and once Opera Ghost, but…then again, I'd never thought about it before.

Drawing back to meet his possessive stare, I inquired beneath a furrowed brow, "Why do you think that girl approached us like that?"

"Desperation makes people unashamed and bold about getting what they need," he reported with certainty. "It's cold tonight. That girl is probably another starving mouth on the streets, and we looked wealthy and gullible. …I'm sure the mask factored in, for I doubt she attacks every man walking the sidewalk. The mask…makes it clear that I lack something, a piece of normalcy, if you will, and as much as that very thing made me a threat back at the opera house, here it makes me seem unfortunate and pathetic."

I listened with rapt attention and recalled an earlier statement as he'd yelled at me in our hotel room. He'd hinted at the leers and cruelty he'd endured simply to find us a home. Obviously things were little different here than back in Paris, and yet for me, he'd endured it and walked amongst society when he was always the outcast.

"Not that it matters," he continued, running his fingers delicately over my face. "Let them think what they will because I have _you_. Their opinions can't touch me anymore; _yours_ is the only one that holds weight."

I loved hearing that and knowing it was true. Wrapping my arms around him, I edged near enough to set my forehead to his, closing my eyes and breathing him into my lungs. I felt his exhalations in return, leaving the unprotected holes that constituted a 'nose' in the broadest sense, and I tilted my lips up to again kiss the place and restate its ownership. _Mine_.

We rode to our new house that way, never disentangling, clinging tight, and I had no regrets as the coach carried us a distance from the city and society. I was tired of people anyway.

Erik exited first, masked and astute as he told the driver to wait for his return to unload the few things we'd brought with us. He seemed so excited to show me the house that it was probably fortunate he remembered we had belongings in the back. And blankets, I thought with a smile as I climbed out in the chilled air.

It was silent and dark, nothing but moonlight to see by so far from the city lights, but it was enough to make our house a silhouette that extended far above my head and was etched against the starry backdrop of night. The breath left me in a rush, making a little cloud about my face as I stared. Home…

"Well?" Erik impatiently demanded, catching my hand in his and watching my expressions, intent and eager.

I lifted my smile to him, quick and wordless before I studied again. I saw white and hints of pale blue. It was difficult to decipher colors by moon glow but the porch was just as Erik had said, spindled and beautiful, extending the full length of the first floor with gingerbread trim and enough space for a swing or a table. Eating meals on our porch in the summer… I could already envision it.

"Come inside!" he exclaimed and pulled me to the wooden stairs. I tried to absorb one more look before we were beneath the porch's awning. I saw turrets, pointed up to the sky, trim even on the roof. It truly was a doll's house. I was determined that when the sun was up, I would venture back out and make a better image for my memory. Now it was impossible with Erik tugging me to the door with impatience etched in anticipation.

We went on a detailed tour. He lit lamps in every room to chase the shadows away until an empty, hollow house came alive before our eyes. It was…perfect. My mind's eye conjured images of every room laden in furniture, where Erik's piano would rest, cooking meals in the beautiful kitchen and eating in the tall-ceilinged dining room begging for a chandelier, …the baby's room. I didn't speak the thought, but I imagined a nursery complete with a crib and rocking chair, the room right beside ours where I could hear our child at night and tend to it when needed. I could picture to the last detail: a pool of sunlight pouring through sheer curtains as I rocked the little bundle and marveled over such a miracle.

I considered sharing the thought with my husband, but as he absorbed my every expression, he said, "This room could be anything you'd like. A music room of your own, perhaps a library, a private study. _Anything_. I will arrange it to your specifications."

A nursery… I just nodded agreement and followed him onward. One life-changing experience at a time, I told myself. Once we were settled and _home_, then I would tell him.

As per our plans, we spent that first night in our new home without furniture and made a memory. Erik lit the fireplace in the master bedroom for warmth and arranged us a bed on the hardwood floor with enough blankets to forget the discomfort. But we didn't sleep that night. We talked and laughed; we planned out our house and made spoken lists of what we needed to buy; we made love in between every drawn-out conversation, cuddled naked beneath the blankets as the fire's flames danced over the walls and made a picture show.

Sleep was impossible anyway. Old houses had their own ominous music at night, but every bizarre creak and moan made me jump and Erik laugh at my anxiety.

"The house is settling," he kept assuring along with an explanation of the horrible bellows the catacombs used to make at night, noises that sounded as if the opera house above would eventually cave in on itself.

His words only eased me until the next unexplainable sound. Twice I even sent him downstairs to look about, and though he huffed annoyance as he dragged on his pants, he never denied my request and took his time in a detailed search before returning to report nothing amiss. My gallant prince, and I met him with appreciative hands and lips and undressed him all over again.

Memory was the script of our lives. It kept our story for us. Erik and I shared so many memories of pain and separation; I was determined that they would be overshadowed by every blissful one we were creating. We were _happy_, soaring into the epilogue that came with the final clause of every love story. …Now I just had to figure out how to fit a baby into happily ever after without shattering its meaning.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

The next days were busy. Erik traveled back and forth between the city and our house, collecting furniture and accessories. He returned every evening with an overloaded carriage. I thought he was overdoing it. Surely we didn't need so much and all only the finest made, but Erik wasn't as accustomed to self-denial or buying secondhand as I was. He preferred the best and insisted with every smile that we were wealthy beyond our means anyway. What had he needed in the catacombs besides fine suits? It was time to spoil ourselves, according to him. I simply gaped and shook my head.

I wasn't upset that I didn't go into the city with Erik to choose décor and furnishings. There was too much to do to get each room cleaned and ready, washing and dusting, pruning out in an overgrown garden before the days turned too cold. I kept busy while he was gone so that when he returned, we could delight in each other and recuperate together, cuddling on our new couch or eating a supper I cooked at our new table. It was pleasant and exciting, and I adored every second.

One morning that first week, I awoke before Erik and slipped out of our new bed without jostling him. Quiet as could be, I hurried to our kitchen and made him breakfast, eager to have everything ready and the table set before he came downstairs. This would be something new. He was usually gone at sunrise. I had a hope that meant his buying spree was over, and we could start to enjoy our house.

Our kitchen was stocked with anything I could need to prepare an elaborate meal, but I chose something rustic and simple: biscuits from my mother's recipe. I had been quite young when she'd died, but one of the few memories I had was tugging at her apron, standing beside her as she'd kneaded the dough and rolled it out. I had had to learn kitchen skills at an early age, for after her death, we had had no one else, and when Papa's meals had been limited to cut bread and cold cheese, I had taken cooking upon my shoulders with a determination to master its basic components and my mother's recipes.

As I worked with diligence now in my own kitchen, I took great care to be certain every detail was perfect, smiling delight to imagine Erik's surprise. Oh, how I enjoyed surprising him!

The scent of the cooking biscuits was just starting to permeate the kitchen when I felt the first queasy waves in my stomach. It was not uncommon; I'd had the horrible nauseous sensation all week triggered by smells but though my stomach gave an unsettled ache, I fought against it. I was not about to let it ruin my breakfast.

I was not a fool. I had enough knowledge about pregnancy to be aware of such a common symptom. Shockingly, my education came from unfortunate ballerinas. Those poor girls! So young but both gullible _and_ experienced at the same time. So many gave credence to every attention a patron paid them and believed they'd be swept out of poverty and performing and carried to fine mansions as aristocratic wives. They granted liberties they shouldn't and then had the consequence to deal with alone as the patrons went on to more naïve girls. I'd seen it all and kept secrets with them, knowing once management knew one of their performers was with child, she'd be cast out of work and onto the street. I'd watched girls lift the waistband of their tutus above telltale stomach lumps and desperately pray no one caught on. It was tragic and certainly stopped me from ever granting Raoul more than a few kisses.

The early symptom of nausea was one of the more annoying to tolerate, but not every pregnancy was doomed to share it. I was convicted that the turn of my stomach would be as far as I'd let it get. Swallowing hard and rubbing my temples with clammy hands, I steadied myself with deep breaths and continued until I felt an inkling of control. I wanted to call it a victory and conclude the mind stronger than the body. Yes, I was in control. …I was a _fool_ to think that.

By the time the biscuits were ready and Erik joined me in the dining room, I couldn't savor his enthusiasm because I was trying so hard to hide the returned unease of my stomach.

"Christine, …are you all right? You look pale," he gently bid, setting his biscuit aside to watch me with critical eyes.

But I forced a smile, however unconvincing, and averted my gaze to my plate, buttering my biscuit with fingers that shook in spite of every deep breath I attempted. "So…tell me, why are you home for breakfast this morning? I thought you'd be off buying some other unnecessary piece of furniture."

My teasing was believable enough to distract his concern, though I noted that he never quit studying with those penetrating eyes. "Actually, the 'unnecessary' piece of furniture is _very_ necessary and is being delivered at midday. My piano."

I glanced up and saw the excitement twinkle in the blues and greens of his stare with the mere mention. How he'd longed for that instrument! I was almost loath for its arrival, certain he'd spend days in a musical trance once he had the ivory keys at his fingertips. I could only hope to break him out of it for meals and bedtime, neither of which I wanted to endure alone ever again. Ever since I'd rid him of that mask when in my presence, we'd eaten together. No more meals for him after I was abed. It felt like the real task of a family.

"And the piano is being delivered?" I inquired with arched brows. "I am shocked you did not buy it first thing and bring it home yourself."

"It wouldn't fit in the carriage," he retorted as if the answer were obvious, and I giggled beneath my breath, undoubting that he had taken the time to measure and know for certain to the last inch.

"Promise you'll still play the violin every so often," I pleaded as I nibbled on my biscuit. "I'd gotten used to hearing its timbre again and would miss it if you stopped."

"Just for you, _ange_. I will play you serenades while we sit out on our porch." He suddenly snapped his fingers and concluded, "A swing! That's what I still must buy. Although…tomorrow I'll linger for breakfast with you if you promise to cook again. This is wonderful, Christine."

I wanted to share the thought. The biscuits had come out exactly right: light and flaky, they were even still warm from the oven, and yet every forced bite made my stomach rotate a little more violently.

"Christine, …are you sure you're all right?"

But I wasn't. With a flustered cry, I leapt to my feet and darted out of the room, clutching stomach and mouth at the same time. No, no, no! I hated vomiting! And worse yet was to do it in front of someone dearly loved, but Erik was half a step behind me, shouting my name, though I did not pause until I was in the bathroom and breakfast was a bitter, forgotten memory.

I cried as I slid to my knees before the basin, still clinging to a stomach that would not settle even now empty. Erik was right there, stroking my hair as he knelt behind me and cooing, "It's all right, _ange_. Sshh."

I felt mortified, though I could not give myself a reason why, and Erik's gentle touch and soothing voice only made me cry harder.

"Christine," he tenderly bid, still running his fingers through my curls and guiding them from my clammy brow, but as he tried to slip his arms around my crouched shape, I scooted away and sobbed. "Christine," he said as if I were being ridiculous, "let me hold you."

"No, …please don't touch me," I begged desperately. "I might vomit again." I was entirely honest, and when he chuckled, I shot a tear-filled glare at him. "Don't laugh; this is humiliating enough!"

"Humiliating?" he scoffed. "You are ill. What is humiliating in that? Don't be silly, _ange_. I've seen much worse in the world than my wife losing her breakfast."

"Don't say it like that!"

"Then how shall I say it to please you? Christine, you're being absurd. Now let me hold you and put you to bed while I go and fetch a doctor."

"No, I don't need a doctor!"

He shook his head and insisted, "If you are ill, you certainly need a doctor. I promise I will return as quickly as I can to take care of you."

I buried my face in my hands, and without a look, I only heard the gentle smile in his voice as he vowed so sweetly, "I'll hold you in bed and read to you or sing if you'd like, anything to make you feel better. And then I'll cook you soup, and if you can't keep it down, I'll hold your hair back next time you vomit and kiss your brow and promise you that it is no cause for shame and tears. Christine, I love you. Nothing you do is going to change that. If anything, I will find it enjoyable to tend to you while you are sick and spoil you to no end."

"Can't you do all of that _without_ fetching a doctor first?" I questioned between splayed fingers as my palms grew smeared in lingering tears.

"Of course not! You _need_ a doctor. I would not be a good husband if I let this illness progress."

"But it _will_ progress," I moaned miserably. "Nothing you do will stop it, and…I've already seen the doctor for it. Seeing another is unnecessary."

I peeked at him between my fingers. Dear Lord, this was _not_ how I wanted to tell him, but…I feared if I didn't, he would indeed get a doctor and hear it from his lips instead of mine.

"What do you mean?" he urgently demanded. "When did you see a doctor? Back in Paris? …Are you ill, and you never told me? Dear God, Christine, what are you not saying?"

Concern became panic and increased anxiousness in every question, and my hands dropped from my face as I quickly shook my head. "No, no, it's nothing like that! That day when you found me missing from our hotel, …I had gone to see a doctor."

But his eyes widened in their sockets. I saw apprehension, …and I saw fear as he bid without a voice, "Is it…something I did to you? Have I…infected you? Oh God… I never considered… But my face could be a disease, couldn't it? Not just an unfortunate circumstance but an affliction, …perhaps contagious. Is that it? I'd never been close enough to anyone to know such things, and if I've infected you-"

"No, Erik, stop! It's nothing so dire!" His self-loathing and despair cut to my heart. To even consider that he pondered such a thing, …it made me reluctant to share the truth because I already knew how he would take such news. An infection, a disease, an affliction. Every word branded a path into my skin.

"Then what is it, Christine?" he frantically demanded, and I saw his hands rise as if they would touch me but quickly fist midair. He was _afraid_ to touch me.

In a timid whisper, I revealed, "A baby."

The news struck him like a blow, knocking air from his lungs in an audible exhalation, and he looked away from me, his unmasked face giving little away to his thoughts beyond shock.

"Erik," I begged, seeking the same tender tone he used so well upon me, "it isn't a disease or an infection. It is only a baby, _our_ baby. …Please say _something_."

But he didn't. He gave me one solid look that I could not read, and then he was on his feet and racing from the room. Tears returned, and I sobbed as I heard the front door slam shut hard enough to rattle the floor beneath my feet. Happy ending…no, I was alone, and I wasn't sure 'happy' was a possibility anymore. 

* * *

><p>Erik didn't come back all day. His precious piano arrived from a couple of deliverymen with an oversized carriage, and I signed for it with a dull smile and showed them where to set it. It would be there to await Erik's return, or so I kept telling myself as I uttered fake pleasantries and thanked the deliverymen as they left.<p>

Alone again in a house that suddenly felt too large, I set my cheek to the wood trim about the parlor doorway and stared at the shiny, new piano, bathed in sunlight from the adjacent windows. It looked like a dream after the nightmare darks of the catacombs. A dream too sweet to be true when I tried to fantasize Erik in that pool of sun, playing and glowing, illuminated when he typically preferred shadows. It was a fantasy, and although wanted, I wasn't sure we'd have it.

Daylight stretched its beams until they dropped low to the hardwood floors and eventually faded out of existence. Night, and I was still alone. I sat on our couch, perched on the edge of its cushions expecting to hear the front door's creak soon. He _had to_ come back. He couldn't leave me and not because of this. I'd done nothing wrong except keep it a secret, but never maliciously, never cruel or vindictive. How often were we building dreams lately and then hammering at them with our own hands and cracking their foundation? I felt every one wobble and insist it wouldn't keep upright.

Eventually, as the hours grew late, I curled onto the couch beneath a thick blanket, trying desperately to keep my eyes open, but I lost that battle quickly. Sleep arrived whether I wanted it or not.

The next thing I remembered was music. Playing delicately in my dreams, a piano's timbre but a sweet lullaby so soft and timid at the end of every phrase. I sighed somewhere in dreamscape because my heart felt complete again. I wasn't alone.

When I finally found the strength to open heavy eyes, the music was still playing, calling me back to awareness. As lids lifted, I fixed my gaze on Erik's back, poised and elegant as he sat on the piano's bench, muscles in motion as his hands spanned the keys. Sunlight was barely peeking inside, grazing him coyly in its rays as if testing before finally branding him, seeing if he were worthy enough to earn light instead of dark. As I silently watched, I saw the glow brighten with the sunrise and felt as if he had indeed earned it.

I lay there quiet and savoring the music for a long while, gazing at my husband and praying his return was a good sign. I couldn't see his face or expression, but the music was gentle. That seemed a hinted revelation.

When I finally sat up, running my hands over my disheveled hair and smoothing wrinkles in the gown I'd never changed from the night before, my attention caught on a foreign object near the door. Resting there, so unthreatening and small, was a cradle. Tears rimmed my eyes at its image. A cradle for our baby.

"Oh…" The smallest sigh left my lips, and ever attuned to me, Erik halted mid-chord and turned on the piano bench to seek me with urgent eyes.

When he noticed the tears I could not halt, he gently bid, "Christine, don't cry, _ange_."

"You…were gone."

"And did you think I wouldn't return? Surely you know better than that. Don't I always return to you? It's impossible to sever the thread between us; it always has been. We've stretched it to the point of frayed edges, and yet it has a metal core. It won't snap."

Although I basked in his words, I saw hints of desolation in his eyes, as if he could not fully give it up, and swiping tears away with the backs of my fingers, I slowly rose and approached his peace offering, touching my fingertips to the cool wood of its spindled back and imagining it with a little creature lying on its white, lace-trimmed mattress. My mind's eye never envisioned anything but perfection, never a face with scars or splotches, never anything beyond the dream, and perhaps that was naïve. But…the alternative didn't hold as much hope.

"This is lovely," I softly breathed as I knelt beside the cradle and guided eager caresses to every detail. "I am grateful."

"It's…temporary," he revealed with a hesitation I sought to understand as I gazed at his shape bathed in sunlight.

"Temporary?"

"Well, the child will grow, of course. Cradles only serve their purpose so long, and then…my mother had a special crib built for me by the time I could sit up. It…had a top on it to keep me from getting out."

My eyes widened with the gradual reach of my horror. "A…a cage?"

"It's practicality, of course," he replied, detached and aloof as though insisting I should have known such an answer already, but I shook my head as it spun out of control and made the image a reality that replaced a perfect baby in a cradle with a tiny, disfigured Erik in a cage…

"Well, you don't want the little monster to be scampering about," he insisted, and I felt a chill race my veins.

"Don't you dare call our baby a monster," I commanded in a breathless voice, hating the sound of the word on his lips. It hurt when he used it to refer to himself; it was a dagger to my belly to hear it used for our child.

"Why? It's a fair assessment. I'm not calling it a 'corpse'; only a glimpse of it will say if that is an applicable appellation, but 'monster' is a given. It's reality, Christine, and how naïve of you to think otherwise. I thought we'd surpassed our days of fairytale beliefs and angels. Don't tell me you're as gullible as ever, seeing the world through sugarcoated lenses yet again. You should know better than that. You were innocent once, and look where it got you: married to a monster and carrying his demon seed in your womb."

"Stop!" I shouted with more fire than I'd ever mustered, but my hands clung to the railing of the cradle, desperate for steadiness as my tear-filled eyes blurred the vision of his abhorred mask. Again, my mind was there to inflict torture in the realities he enticed: a baby in a mask, …_my_ baby in a mask. "You…you can say what you want about _yourself_. Call yourself a monster, but you will _not_ say the same of our child. You will _not_ make this child seem an unwanted curse. It is _ours_; we created it. How can it be anything but a blessing if love is its inspiration?"

But my vigor seemed to make no impression on Erik's stoic coldness. "Love, blessing… And will you speak such words once it breathes life and you glimpse the distortions handed down from its father? Or will you curse _me_ for ruining our baby as heartlessly as I ruined your life?"

"Erik, stop this!"

"What would you have me do, Christine?" he snapped, resting elbows on his bent knees, yet never daring to approach me. I called him a coward in my head for that. He couldn't hold his animosity without distance. He wasn't the threat gripping my arms and seeming as if he would shake sense into me if I disagreed with him. No, …he might not be keen on the idea of a baby, but he was treating me as fragile. …He didn't want to hurt the baby.

"I want you to _hope_," I decided, "and I want you to _pray_ and _love_ our baby because it is ours, no matter what circumstances God deals us. Perhaps our child will bear your face; I am not gullible to forget the possibility of such a fate, but it doesn't make a difference. I love our baby still. I _love_ the child that is already growing and living, and you more than anyone should know that love isn't contingent on perfection or appearance. I _love you_, and your face doesn't matter. Why can _you_ not say the same for our child?"

"You love me," he somberly repeated, and he wouldn't look at me as his gaze drifted to the piano keys and fingers grazed their surface. "But love can turn to hate just as easily as it is earned. And once you see our baby and know its misfortune is only _my_ fault, love will hold resentment. You will hate me for destroying our child, …and I will hate myself."

My heart ached in my chest, crying through my tears as I bid, "Erik-"

"No, leave me be, Christine. Just…leave me be."

He never let me argue further. Within the moment, he launched into a piano sonata, playing at blatant fortissimo and losing himself in a musical trance. Interrupting would have only gotten me anger, and anger was not going to help my cause. So I sat on the floor beside a cradle that no longer felt like a gift for peace, and I allowed the music to weave around me as my thoughts spun behind every note.

I knew what I had to do, the only answer that would save us. I had to teach Erik to love our child as much as I did before it arrived. Unconditional love, a love so great that a face would not matter. I obviously had experience, but it was difficult when the baby was still mostly a spoken word and not full reality yet. I could only hope that as it grew and pregnancy played on, I could show Erik through my own love that it was indeed a blessing. But what a grueling task it seemed when instead of talking to me, my husband was embracing music and choosing its fantasy for escape. It was hypocritical. He pinned the same upon me, said I denied reality in fairytales and optimism. Well, he made his own better reality in music's sphere, and I had little choice but to wait for him to come out of it and accept life again. 

* * *

><p>As the days went by, I had little luck with Erik. He barely spoke to me, keeping me at arm's length from his heart and even his touch. He kept walls between us and wouldn't let me chip at them. Dear Lord, the stubbornness of that man! When he wanted a grudge, he could hold it better than anyone I'd ever met, and even though I felt he had no right to be angry with <em>me<em> for being with child, that was how it seemed. I knew the truth: he was _afraid_, but anger as always was the easier emotion to show, especially when it meant little more than cold stares and avoidance.

My first thought was to let it play out. At some point, I was sure it must disintegrate, for I had occasional flickers of longing in a gaze I wasn't supposed to find upon me. Beneath the façade, he obviously wasn't enjoying this imposed separation, and yet _he_ was the cause. Again, I cursed his obstinacy and reminded myself that he'd once gone into a tirade that had lasted _six months_ after the chandelier's fall! I was not about to wait six months this time.

Pregnancy was difficult. My nausea came and went with an infrequency that infuriated me. Sometimes it seemed over, and then sometimes a random scent would trigger it back to life. I hid all of this from Erik's perception, knowing he would consider it another reason to hate himself and me for our plight. No, the trials of pregnancy were not the way to make him love the baby. I had to wait for the good parts.

Waiting was fine to gain his love for fatherhood; it was _not_ fine to return my husband. I missed him; even though he was under the same roof, I never felt further away. I missed the love in his eyes, the adoration, the awe when I reflected that look back to him. I missed his smile and excitement to please me. I missed _his face_. He seemed attached to his mask again lately and rarely took it off, hiding behind its shield. It stung because it felt as if I'd lost the privilege and trust that came with seeing his face, vulnerable and exposed.

Pregnancy magnified every thought and emotion tenfold. Sometimes I broke apart and cried while locked in the bathroom, spinning hopelessness into a vortex that insisted he'd never come around and love me or the baby, that the happy ending I wanted had vanished to nothing. Sometimes annoyance overcame the pain, and I had the urge to shout at him and call his coldness the temper tantrum of an incorrigible child or opera diva without enough high notes. I bit back the words once, a step from releasing them in a flood, but sense caught up to impulse and said he wouldn't react well to being called a prima donna by his wife. That certainly wouldn't earn me a better attitude.

And then sometimes I found fear and soaked up a bit of his in the process. What if our baby was disfigured? I was trying so hard to convince _Erik_ that it didn't matter, but had I truly faced the reality myself? Would seeing such scars on a baby's face rattle me? I had no doubt that I loved my child and that love would never falter, but I still had fear. What if _I_ weren't strong enough? I had to be the strong one for us all, to make normalcy out of anything but, and what if I couldn't do it? What if in spite of my best efforts, Erik never loved our child, and it grew without a father in a world that was cruel and unkind?

So many agonizing thoughts and feelings! And I had no one to share them with. I had _no one at all_ because my husband wouldn't hold me in his arms and at least grant me the solace of his touch. …Finally, I could take it no more.

Erik was at his piano as the late afternoon sun crept inside and illuminated his mask to a beaming white. I watched him from the doorway, mesmerized on the rise and fall of his body as his played. How many years had he suffocated desire by pouring it into the music? I gazed at his body and studied its motion, and I ached to be a part of it. Days and days denied even a touch; he had music. What did I have but yearning? I was tired of waiting for him to break and decided it was time to urge it along. The music seeped into my skin and encouraged; it made me bold and stole lingering shyness from fingers that tingled too much to tremble. I _wanted_ him, and I was through permitting him to give his desire to the music instead of me!

My soft footsteps whispered along the carpet as I approached. Hesitation came with a thought of igniting his temper rather than his desire, but I dulled sense's voice and refused to let it sway me. No, I wanted too much to give up. Halting beside the piano's keys, I mesmerized myself on the glided movement of his graceful fingers. So beautiful. His hands could span almost a dozen keys at once and traveled their ivory pathway without a single faulty pitch. Every sound, every chord, every note perfection, and I stared and felt the hunger tearing inside and out, dancing in ripples along the surface of my skin and making my gown feel like a heavy weight atop my shoulders. Too thick and too overbearing. I wanted bare skin, and those hands to play their music upon my body. What would it take to win such a fate?

I knew he must sense my presence. Even in a musical stupor, I stood too close to go unacknowledged, but he kept focus on keys, probably doubtless I'd give up before he would. He underestimated the stubborn resolve of a pregnant, touch-deprived wife. Looking wasn't going to be enough; I already knew I had to do more than that, but my fantasies made me blush and sum up my own brazenness. No, I couldn't give up because of timidity, not now.

"Erik…?" I called gently, offering him the chance to control the game I was about to play, but when no reply came, I took it as permission and stifled a nervous grin as I knelt beside his piano bench and guided my hands along his chest between his lifted and poised arms.

"What do you think you're going to achieve with this?" he posed, apathetic, and I longed to call him a liar. Apathetic? No, I felt him quiver beneath my palms, felt a heartbeat race and stammer. Apathetic! He was _overcome_.

I didn't answer. I scooted closer until I was flush to the long expanse of one leg, my chest pressed to his thigh, and I guided my hands along the waistband of his pants, unbuckling and watching him with amusement when he still did not falter his piece. He played, every pitch correct, as if he were not being seduced at the same time. I admired his precision and would have worried that he had chosen music over me if I hadn't slid my hand into his pants and brushed his hardening length with my fingertips. I shivered delight and heard him catch his breath in a barely discernible gasp. He could pretend not to feel anything all he liked, but I had the proof growing harder against my stroking palm and screaming his wanting for him.

"Christine, …stop."

"Why?" I acted coy and innocent, as if I had no idea how close to the brink he was. I pushed him further and hid a smirk.

"Christine!" Sharper tones, and the piece he was playing lost its meter, fast and abrupt, then slowed and ground out, quickening again. Concentration was failing, but I didn't call it a victory yet. He was rigid and stiff-backed on the bench, beating chords that no longer sounded like a piece of music, and taking a breath for unfaltering courage beneath my fierce blush, I drew his pants out of my way, revealing his desire to my eager eyes, and leant close to brush my lips to its straining tip.

He sucked in a hissed breath, all music becoming only palms pounded against the ivory keys in an ugly strike of unmatched pitches. "Christine!" he roared, and yet though he was tensed and frozen in place, he did nothing to make me cease.

A touch of lips wasn't enough, and gazing up into his stupefied stare, I looked for telltale pleasure and took him into my mouth with no more than a blush to give my shyness away. I was apprehensive in provocative gestures, but I wanted and followed instinct to use tongue and lips in teasing adorations. He surrendered a hoarse moan as words seemed to abandon him, and his hands still against the keys became fists, knuckles curled against the black sharps and flats, so stark when his skin was as pale as the ivory.

Soft at first but with growing fervency, I moved my mouth over his hardness, never relenting for fear that once sense returned, he would force me away. I couldn't allow that yet, not when my body was throbbing a desperate duet and insisting it wouldn't calm until I had this inside of me, joining us as one soul, one body. Nothing felt as imperative.

Erik's frantic, wild eyes squeezed closed as if he could not bear to keep watching my provocative endeavor, and though he still did not touch me, he arched his hips off the piano bench and gave in to me. I almost cried in relief, covering him in kisses before taking him back within my mouth, and as I gently sucked, he cried out and a hand finally broke from keys to delve into my hair, disheveling my bound locks with fingers that pressed taut to my scalp and took control of my motion. I allowed him and stifled a smile. I'd won.

Such ministrations only could sustain so long, and with a frustrated cry, I had no choice but to give in as the hand in my hair tangled and jerked me away. "Not yet," I begged and tried to kiss again, inching forward before he yanked harder and gave me no room to argue.

"What has come over you? Dear Lord! I am not accustomed to being assaulted at my piano!" he exclaimed, and I gazed at his hinted smile of amusement, half in love with the sight alone. How I'd missed such expressions! I wanted them all as mine and lifted one hand to snatch that mask away and find his face and a full view of that smile.

"Christine," he bid, and I heard affection and mewed my delight as I rubbed my fingertips along his scars and relearned their texture and temptation. I _loved_ them; I felt as if I'd spent the past days mourning their vision.

The hand in my hair loosened with my actions and compliance, and I took advantage to once again close the gap and kiss his erection with reverent lips.

"Christine!" He sank back into the cushion and sought to disentangle, guiding my shoulders with sweaty palms. "You ridiculous girl! Stop this before you drive me mad!"

"I should like to drive you mad," I decided and stroked him with my fingers instead. "You deserve it for ignoring me for days. _Days_, Erik! I feel it my right to torture you with wanting."

"Wanting? Pleasure, _ange_. You are teasing me to ecstasy every second within your warm lips. Christine… Stop this. I will not take more, and you are pushing me to it. I need control, _ange_, and if you keep teasing, I won't have it."

"Good!" I scooted between his legs and did not hesitate to edge upward, desperate to find his lips and a kiss. "Please, Erik!"

He had little choice but to catch my waist as I climbed atop his lap, but shaking his head, he declined my urgency. "No, …I can't reason it's a good idea…not in your condition."

I scoffed at such absurdity and wove my arms about his neck, lowering my pantaloon-encased thighs to either side of his hips and arching my body to his, reminding him what we both wanted. "Please don't refuse, _ange_. I want you so much. I'm _aching_."

I felt him shudder with my beseeching, his deep-socketed eyes hazy and lids heavy and drooping as I pressed firmer to his hardness and begged again, "Please."

"And wet, Christine?" he huskily demanded. "Are you wet for me, _ange_?" I didn't answer as his hand sought knowledge on its own, slipping between my thighs and probing against my pantaloons to steal the wetness soaking through the thin material. "Oh God… Get rid of these."

I obeyed and lifted my body enough to help him jerk them down and off, climbing back atop him without their intrusive presence. His hand found my bare thighs this time, and I lost a cry as his fingers dove deep in one abrupt thrust, teasing me with the fullness I longed for.

"Erik," I whined and squeezed his hips with my impatient thighs. "_Please_."

"But…after what I've done… I don't deserve such bliss." Even as he spoke such uncertainties, he gently moved fingers in and out; he never stopped, and I took that as triumph, moving my hips with his motion and gasping to the depths of my lungs. Those fingers had spanned the piano's keys, caressing and teasing ivory, and now they caressed and teased me. I was humbled and grateful at the same time.

"_Please_, _ange_."

"How dare I make you mine? How dare I after I cursed you with my offspring? You shouldn't want the monster that condemned you. No, …no, but you're so wet, Christine, so eager and willing. I don't think I can resist."

I cried out my delight and fitted my body above his, but before I could take him inside, he halted me and clasped my hips in vehement palms, his eyes urgent and terrified on mine. "But…will I hurt you…or the baby?"

I had to swallow back tears. It was the first time I'd heard any pleasant emotion from him in reference to our child. …He didn't want to hurt the baby.

"No, no," I assured, kissing his misshapen upper lip with both of mine. "No, Erik, you will not hurt either of us." I smiled so gratefully at him with more flustered kisses to his damaged face, but smiles became an elated cry as he guided my hips to his and plunged deep.

I ran eager caresses along his shoulders, wishing I could feel skin but only able to peel back his collar and kiss his throat. Oh, how I should have been patient enough to fully undress him! …And myself! He was aggravated to no end; I heard his huffs as he yanked on my bodice, but he was stronger than I could hope to be and tore a gash done its neckline to find my chemise and my breasts. His mouth captured one and sucked hard enough to make me clutch his hair and arch firmer into him.

He was so deep within me. I felt complete to my very soul, every chasm crossed and filled. He was mine again, and nothing else mattered.

His arms wove about my torso, gripping and rocking me with a deliberately gentle motion as his lips made kisses to my temple and hairline, always adorations in every grazed contact. "I love you," he whispered above my ear, and for all the desire in the room, love was thicker and suffocating, and I wanted to be pulled under its tide.

But ecstasy came, even if it was second to the binding of hearts, and I burrowed my cry against his disfigured cheek, cupping his nape in my palms and riding out pleasure's wave.

"Say you're mine," he begged as my senses recovered.

"_Yours_. I'm yours."

"And…do you love me still, Christine?"

"Oh, Erik," I whimpered, stroking his nape and adding more kisses. "Of course. Of course, I love you. I adore you."

He relaxed with my vow and yet guided a harsher rhythm with my hips in his hands, moaning his pleasure as glorious as a song. I smiled and shivered, grasping with unbreakable arms as he reached his peak, …but my bliss was shattered to see tears travel from his deep eyes. I immediately pressed my flawless cheek to his disfigured one and smeared their descent, making them as shared as everything else in a soul.

"I'm sorry," he whispered without voice against my ear. "Oh, Christine, how can you forgive me? I've ruined everything. I should have known better than to think I could ever touch anything as pure and beautiful as you without destroying it."

"Erik," I gently bid, stroking his hair with delicate fingers, "you didn't destroy me. Why must you say it that way?"

"But I took your purity and tarnished it. I had no right."

"You had _every_ right. Stop saying it like you forced this on me."

"I forced _all_ of this on you," he insisted back, but even though it was half an argument, he kept my body against his, our heartbeats echoing off each other's. He couldn't let go, and I didn't want him to. "Marriage, and now my seed in your womb. It's an atrocity!"

"No, it's a baby," I corrected, still combing my fingers through his hair.

He stiffened at the word even beneath my touch and after a pause, pleaded, "Please let's not speak of it. Not now. I've been trying for days to wrap my mind about it, and I can't, not yet. Please can we just forget its existence for a little while and return to the way things started in this house? I beg it of you, Christine. Don't speak anymore of the child, not until I can make _sense_ of it."

I wanted to call his terms impossible. Forget our child? How could _I_ possibly forget? Never mind all the symptoms of pregnancy, I didn't _want to _forget. But…when the alternative was to keep distance and coldness between us, I nodded consent. Not to forgetting, but to remaining mute on the subject toward Erik…for now.

Relief came with my agreement, a weight lifted from his shoulders, and I felt every muscle sag and lean into me, his grip tighter and inseverable.

"I love you. I love you," he beseeched, but before I could repeat it, he picked me up just as I was atop his lap and carried me upstairs as if I were no burden at all. I knew soon such things would change; I would be swollen and round with child. But he wanted to forget, and I let him pretend this was all there would be. I let him lay me in our bed and bury himself deep within my body again, and even if he saw my acquiescence as choosing him over our child, _I_ never forgot its presence in my womb. I loved them both. I wished Erik could understand that.


	7. Chapter 7

So here's chapter seven! I hope everyone's enjoying it so far! :)

For all of you wonderful phans who read and love my stories, I'm going to be publishing a collection, ones that have been posted and some that have not, and I've decided to have a contest for the cover art! I am NOT an artist, but I know that a lot of you are. Wouldn't it be neat to have your picture as a cover of a novel and your name as the cover artist? More information to come soon! Start those creative wheels turning!

Chapter Seven

Fall came in colors that amazed me. I'd seen trees transform to their warm, autumn hues before, but in this country, everything seemed brighter, new shades altogether like a whole new experience. Or…maybe it was because I shared such details with Erik this time. So long belowground never acknowledging nature, and he seemed astounded by every alteration in a season, staring fixedly from our porch at red and rusty orange leaves as if willing them to keep changing. I would sit curled in his arms and a thick woolen blanket on our swing and be as amused by the awe on his unmasked face as by the trees.

I pushed his wonder onward, insisting on walks through our yard and laughing to crunch every fallen leaf with my boots. I leapt up and down to make more noise and saw my inquisitive husband savor the sounds like music. I glimpsed the creative wheels turn in his mind and knew he was hearing percussion and symphonies, and it only made me crunch more as I spun in a breeze that dragged leaves free to twirl with me.

Autumn. I adored every second of it, especially with Erik's unending enthusiasm toward me and our little life. We rarely left the house unless it was in our own yard. The few trips I made with him into the city were unsatisfying when I had to gaze at him in a mask and with a persona I didn't approve of in my presence. I liked our solitude and didn't feel a loss for the world when I had Erik. He was enough, but…then again, it wasn't just Erik, was it?

He might be carrying through on his request to forget our baby, but for me, it was a constant thought in my mind. I was just beginning to show its presence, not much more than the smallest swell, but it meant so much because it was visible proof. I was doubtless Erik and his constant attentiveness to my every detail must have noticed as well, but he never said a word, never even an added caress to my belly when we made love. He wanted to keep pretending, and yet I was sure that was a lie on both our parts.

Erik liked to spend his time composing or working on his music, and since our arrival in our new home, my lessons had gone by the wayside. At first, it was the product of being busy and getting the house in order; music came second to that, but…I began to notice that once news of the baby was in his head, he never pushed music on me. It seemed odd since he'd spent so long molding my voice. No more lessons, no more singing. Was that a punishment to us both? The day I realized the baby was still a fixed thought in his head was the day I asked for a lesson. He was hesitant and within two exercises, made us quit, insisting he had other things to do, but I saw worry in his gaze, the constant study during our attempt. He was treating me as fragile.

It started with music but branched out to other things as he stole some of my housework without telling me. I wondered how the floors were suddenly getting cleaned and the furniture dusted until one night he slipped out of bed, thinking me asleep. I tiptoed after him, desperate to avoid any creak of the floor, and peaked between the stair rails only to find him meticulously doing the housework in the middle of the night. …Say what he wanted, he'd never forgotten the baby.

I knew my original plan was the best one: to get him to _love_ the baby as much as I did before it ever breathed air. But first, I had to bring it back into our lives. I found my opportunity one afternoon as I prepared supper in our kitchen.

Erik was at the piano in the parlor, and the music wafted down the hallway and filled every room of the house. I loved it. I got to appreciate and adore his talent at practically every moment of the day with music so brilliant and frequent that it felt too quiet whenever he ceased.

I was cutting vegetables for a quick soup when I felt the baby move for the first time. It was the smallest flutter, so subtle that I thought it was imagined until it happened a second time and a third. I gasped, slowly putting aside what I was doing as if one motion too hasty would make it stop, and with fingers that shook, I touched my lower belly in the spot and gasped louder to _feel_ it like a subtle pulsation against the pads of my fingers. My baby… Tears filled my eyes and streamed down my cheeks at the absolute wonder.

A legato melody wrapped notes around my shoulders like an embrace, and though I considered rushing to tell Erik, I was loath to break his musical hypnosis, especially since the flutter lasted only moments. I was disappointed when it stopped, and yet now that I had _felt _our baby's life, everything was abruptly real. I was determined it was time for it to be real for Erik as well.

A little later, we sat to supper at our dining room table, and I couldn't stop smiling. It was as if I carried the most delightful secret, and for every hardship in between, I was eager to share it with Erik. He was not only my husband and love but also my dearest friend, the only one I'd want to give my excitement to. I hesitated as we began to eat and let him fill the space with explanations of the new piece he'd spent the afternoon devising.

"I heard it," I reminded when he hummed me the main melody line. "You forget that walls are not soundproof, and it's impossible _not_ to hear when you play."

"Are you complaining then?" he teased, matching my grin.

"Not at all. It feels as if I'm being serenaded all day long. Not every girl is so fortunate."

"Not every _husband_ is so fortunate," he corrected. "To have such a beautiful and adoring wife who doesn't tire of hearing the same musical passage over and over again as chordal structures are worked out. I'm lucky you don't shout at me to choose one and stop obsessing!"

"Oh, I've thought it before," I teased back. "But then you play it when it's right and perfect, and I know better than to rush your genius along."

He beamed with my words as he tasted his soup, gazing at me all the while. Lucky, no, _I_ was the lucky one to have that look as mine, that sheer adoration that lit every corpse-like feature of his face and made them alive and stunning to behold. I was certain not every woman had a man ready to fall to his knees with reverence before her. I didn't want to be worshipped like a goddess, but…it made his face so beautiful. How I loved him!

And though I was afraid of losing that look, I knew that for my child, I would. Smiling with my secret again, I softly confided, "I felt the baby move today."

The spoon dropped from his hand and made an ugly clank against his porcelain bowl as his eyes widened in their sunken sockets and beauty went away. "Oh…"

"Yes," I quickly added and tried to cover the unpleasant moment, "while I was cooking supper. It was…just a flutter, but I felt it strike my fingers, and…it was amazing." I wanted to convey the exact wonder I'd known, but Erik refused to meet my eye, his expression drawn in discontent. I didn't give him an exit. I made him face it this time. "I know you don't favor talking about it, and Lord knows, I've abided by your request for months, but…it's going to be undeniable soon. It was real _today_ when I felt it. Erik, …it's our _child_, and I can't bear this alone. I don't want to. Please…stop being afraid."

"Afraid?" he posed doubtfully. "Is that what you think?"

"Well, of course! You're afraid our child will bear scars."

He chuckled, cruel-laced and bitter, and I cringed at the sound. "I'm not afraid of our child, Christine; I'm _disgusted_ by it."

My heart dropped in my chest, and I felt my cheeks pale beneath his vile words. Disgusted… And though tears rose, I glared through their veil and snapped back, "Then you are a hypocrite. Disgusted by something _you_ had a part in creating? And even if our baby bears scars, you, who tell a story of an intolerable life, would cast our child aside and dub it unsalvageable? You would deny your child because it shares your fate? Well, I can't accept that! I won't!"

Pain and rage entwined until I wasn't sure which I was entertaining as I abruptly got to my feet and held his intent stare without sway. In a shout, I added, "You forget that this child is half of me as well. Even if you can never forgive yourself and will hate to see _you_ in our baby, I am there, too. And I will _never_ denounce my child. I will love it whole heart and soul! If you refuse to do the same, then you are a coward. …And so help you God if you _ever_ call my child a monster! It is an innocent baby that will need its father as much as its mother. Why can't you understand that?"

I could endure the heaviness of emotion no longer and fled the dining room without a thought. I had been foolishly optimistic to think Erik could change his thoughts in one conversation and one revelation. I wanted to scream at him and insist he wasn't being fair, but…I already knew the Opera Ghost was not a fair man. He liked to play by his own rules, and he could not control our forming child and its face. He could not be God and mold perfection instead of scars. Part of me was certain he simply hated the idea of helplessness, and in this situation, that was all there could be.

Under my weighted thoughts and stinging tears, I escaped through the front door and took refuge on our swing as the stars twinkled and whispered welcome. It was chilly, the scent of impending frost in the air, and I cuddled beneath a blanket as tears burned my skin.

Hope was a vicious emotion. It kept insisting I could change Erik's perception, that I could guide him to love as I already had once; hope would not accept failure. It returned and made suggestions against my ear, new things to say, new methods to try. It didn't want me to give up, but my spirit was exhausted from playing games with him. I wasn't sure I had the strength to fight this battle to triumph when he gave _nothing_ from his side.

It didn't take long for me to hear the click of the front door. His presence was expected, and I took it as an achievement, however minor, that he'd given me a few moments to myself, knowing months ago, he would have been too terrified I'd run into the dark night and leave him for good to let me beyond his sight.

He didn't speak at first. He crept onto the porch with apprehension thick enough to be felt and knelt on the wooden floor before the swing, studying me with those eyes that snuck into my soul whether I let them or not.

"May I tell you something?" he finally asked, and I held his eye somberly as I nodded. "I've never once forgotten about the child. I may have asked it and even tried to implement such an idea these past months, but how can one truly forget when the knowledge is already present? I haven't had many thoughts that are not about our child."

"Then…why haven't you spoken them to me? Why have I had to keep quiet on the subject and hold my own thoughts on my tongue?"

"Because, you, _ange_, have so many dreams. You envision a baby, and to your mind, it is perfection. _No one_ fantasizes a child with scars, and if that is what we will have, you will be disappointed, and it will be a pain we will both carry." He huffed a breath that clouded in the cold air and insisted, "If our child has scars, that is only _my_ fault, and you will blame me with every right to do so."

"Whether or not our child is scarred is in _God's_ hands, not ours, and either way, it is already here and alive. Shouldn't we cease worry over things we can't change and just love?" I saw the impact my words made; I saw him truly _listen_ and take them to heart rather than dismiss for his own conclusions and so I added more. "I was always taught that God doesn't give us more than we can handle. And if our child is scarred, then we were granted such a child for a reason, because _we_ are the ones who could take such a tragedy and make it into a blessing instead."

The warmth in his expression surprised me, and I savored it. "I wish my mother had had your open heart and your courage, Christine. Perhaps I would have been a different man."

"But perhaps you wouldn't have loved _me_ if you were a different man," I protested. "You certainly wouldn't have been living under an opera house if you'd had a different life and then we'd never have found each other."

Shaking his head, he concluded, "We _always_ would have found each other. Destined hearts follow their path, and I would have sought you amongst thousands. You're the only one, _ange_." His hand slipped beneath my blanket to capture mine and draw it free and to his lips, and with a kiss to my fingertips, he hesitantly declared, "If I'd have left you a life with the Vicomte, you wouldn't have to consider scars or deformities. Your children would be beautiful like you."

"Physical beauty," I corrected, "and that means little. Besides, I'd rather my children were musical geniuses like their father. A flawless face must come second to that. Imagine it, Erik. We could have a house full of composers and musicians, singers and instrumentalists, our own little orchestra to play their Daddy's pieces."

Perhaps he'd never envisioned a single good point for our child because I suddenly saw a light in his eyes as he contemplated my point. "It's doubtless our children will be musically inclined. That's a predetermined point, but…" He ducked his head and kept my hand against his cheek as if he admitted something shameful. "I've been _praying_, Christine. Every time I've considered the baby, I've said a prayer and begged God to spare our child my fate. I promised Him my own soul in exchange. No more sins or deceptions. Your presence has made me a better man not to need such transgressions, but I vowed to atone every blackened spot upon my soul. _Anything_ if He gives you the child you deserve."

"Don't ask such a thing of God," I insisted. "Don't pray for a child without flaws; pray for the strength to accept them if they exist. We can't control this, Erik; it isn't in our capabilities, and God already has His plan. Our task is to love our baby and nothing more."

"I wanted to give you perfection, Christine."

"I don't want perfection. I want happiness."

"And love," he concluded for me with another kiss to my fingers. "But I will give you lifetimes of both."

"And our child?" I posed back with a flutter of nerves.

Though he was silent, he met my gaze, and I glimpsed no reluctance when he replied, "And our child. It's half of you, as you said; how could I not love it?"

"Love the half that's _you_ more, and promise that you mean your words. I've been so afraid these past weeks that you were upset with me for conceiving our child."

A wry grin touched his misshapen lips as he admitted, "I had a valid part in the conception. In a way, I should be proud of it. Don't you agree?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Then yes, I vow my words to you. I will love you _and_ our child for the rest of my life, and I won't leave you to question it again, Christine. You both are my family."

I nodded and relished his adoration and a smile that only grew. It felt like a beginning. _Finally_, a start to a happy ending. And that was my prayer: that this would indeed be our happy ending and hardships were over. I prayed it without voice and hoped I was heard. 

* * *

><p>Acceptance was a slow process. Though I could now speak of the baby in Erik's presence, I noted that he never brought up the topic on his own. He was…hesitant, but I began to see that overriding a fear of our child's face was a fear of being a father. I liked it because it seemed ordinary. That was what typical young couples worried over: being good parents, not scars and deformities. It made us as close to normal as we'd ever been.<p>

Fall dropped the rest of its leaves nearly overnight, and the first snows came. I adored it and couldn't get enough of staring out the window, wrapped in a blanket and wide-eyed at every delicate flake. I watched them pile up over the front walk and line tree branches with snow coats and imagined that next year I'd take my child out in the snowfall to play. I had to wonder if Erik had any notion of playing in the snow. He'd probably think it ridiculous to toy with frozen water destined to melt, disappear, and leave only cold behind.

I changed my mind about an hour later. Like a domesticated husband, he shoveled our front porch and walk, insisting he had to be able to get out the next day and travel to the city for provisions. Though he seemed annoyed to have to perform such manual labor, I watched him from the window as he committed to the task and yet did it with a certain elegance not many men could possess in such a situation. He was too graceful and lovely when he moved, bundled in a coat, scarf, and hat. It was adorable; I couldn't keep from smiling and giggling beneath my breath at the picture.

Every so often, he looked up and met my gaze with a playful expression that made me wish I wasn't five months pregnant and could leap into a snow bank with him. I was still laughing and trying to hide it, but he obviously caught me. Within half a motion, he had a clump of snow between his hands and heaved it at the front window. It struck with a loud thud and only made me laugh harder to see the smear of flattened flakes left behind.

A snowball, and then as he mimicked my laughter, he rushed close to the window glass as I met him on the other side. 'I love you'. I saw him lip the words before he pressed his misshapen mouth to the glass in a kiss. I imitated his gesture and adored the telltale prints remaining upon the window to give kisses away. A beautiful blemish.

Later that evening, the snow had yet to cease, tapping upon our marked glass with each gust of wind. Erik hadn't bothered another attempt at shoveling, frustrated the incessant breeze had concealed his earlier work and made it inconsequential.

"Perhaps I should have moved us south," he said as he stood a step from our imprinted kiss and stared at the white shower with a huff. "Weather hadn't factored into my decision-making, but if _this_ is the first snowfall and winter hasn't officially begun, we should brace for quite a bit more."

My thought was thank goodness the baby wasn't due until spring. I couldn't fathom sending for a doctor in such a storm. He'd likely arrive only after I'd delivered the baby myself!

Curled upon the couch in my nightdress, I tucked a quilt about my abdomen and rested my cheek atop bent arms. "It isn't so terrible, is it? I find it cozy to be snowed in, just you and I unable to go anywhere."

"We don't go anywhere as it is," he reminded with a quick grin. "It's like every other day except messier."

"No, _prettier_," I corrected and sighed to stare past his shape at the oversized flakes dancing on each gust. I was calm and serene, and I felt the baby give an enthusiastic kick. "_Erik_," I hissed as if merely the sound of my voice would make it stop, "come here."

He darted a worried look in my direction but hastily complied, kneeling beside the couch and frantically demanded, "What's wrong, Christine? Are you all right? Are you in pain? …Is it the baby?"

I nodded and snatched his hand, dragging it beneath the covers. I did not contemplate the ramifications of my actions, did not second-guess or ponder. I'd felt the baby move dozens of times in the past weeks, but Erik had yet to experience the thrill of it. I held my breath and pressed his fingertips against my lower belly in the exact place, cupping my palm behind his and waiting, …waiting…

The next kick was rambunctious and sharp enough to make Erik gasp and try to yank free, but I held quick and wouldn't let him. "That's our baby," I assured in whispers, stifling the urge to laugh at his bewilderment. Another kick and another, less abrupt and gentler like a flutter, and I kept his fingers to the place and beamed with elation.

It lasted only minutes, and as soon as it stopped, he breathlessly bid, "What happened? Is it all right? Why did it stop?"

"Oh, it comes and goes," I assured, savoring his open concern. "It will stop awhile but might happen again soon."

"Will you…tell me when it happens?" he asked, tentative and yet urgent, and I swallowed against tears as I nodded. To my shock and adoration, he hesitated and then leaned closed to lightly set his cheek to my stomach atop the blankets. It was the sweetest gesture, and the tears appeared of their own accord as I stroked his brow and breathed deep. _This_ was how things were supposed to be. This peace and bliss… I loved him more at that moment than I ever had because I knew without doubt that he loved our baby. 

* * *

><p>Christmas was wonderful, all the more because we were nearly snowed in. Erik couldn't go out into the city, so I had little choice but to cook porridge for our holiday meal. Oh well... It would certainly be remembered for its peculiarities.<p>

We had a small Christmas tree, one Erik had cut from our yard, which was more like a bush in size and stature, but it served its purpose. Having to depend on what we had in the house to decorate it, I strung popcorn to drape along its branches and hung random snippets of material and trinkets. I even cut up some of Erik's manuscript paper, pages he'd only marked thus far with clef signs in his elegant calligraphy. They made such lovely ornaments. As a finishing touch, on the top of the tree, I hung Erik's mask. He regarded my actions oddly and asked what in the world I was doing. But as I told him, Christmas tradition called for an angel on a treetop. Here was mine.

A few days later, the weather changed and started to melt mounds of snow, enough to free us of our confinement. Eager to replenish supplies and fill the pantry, Erik wanted to go to the city and I asked to accompany. I wanted to make a stop and see Dr. Stevens; to my astonishment, Erik insisted on coming with me.

From the instant we entered the waiting room, I felt Erik's unease as if it were mine. Wasn't it? I was just as attuned to the number of stares directed at Erik's mask, and in such tight quarters, there was no escape, nothing to do but sit and wait with whispers and gazes crawling on our skin. I scooted as near to his side as I could and slid my hand atop his arm. Subtle comfort, but I felt in that single touch how tense he was, on alert and one word away from attack. Not even my presence calmed him. To him, the cramped space was a room of interrogation and judgment, nothing more.

It was a relief when we were finally called in, and even though the assistant's expression said it wasn't typical for husbands to attend appointments, she gave no argument with one look at Erik's mask and led us to a private examination room. It didn't matter. I would have argued for his presence anyway; I wasn't about to leave him in that waiting room without me, half-afraid he _would_ indeed attack with the right provocation. Erik might be seeking to be a better man and husband, but just as he'd said when we'd landed in America, the mask was being seen as a weakness and hiding some deficiency, not the threat he preferred to convey. If the mask no longer said danger, I worried how else he would portray it if necessary.

Dr. Stevens met us within minutes, and though he gave one long look at Erik's attentive guard, he did not protest as he greeted me with a smile and eager pleasantries. The examination was brief, and I noticed Erik's glare every time the doctor touched the place where our baby rested. It amused me.

"Well, Madame," the doctor began with a grin, "I am pleased to say that your baby is doing just fine, growing right to schedule. Is the little one moving about? Have you felt kicks and motion?"

"Oh yes," I reported with a fond laugh as I pressed my palm to my stomach. "And I'm grateful to hear such wonderful news. I fear it will be difficult to return and see you until the baby is almost here. The snows are treacherous and already kept us confined the last weeks."

"Yes," Erik spoke up in the arrogant Opera Ghost voice I hated as he established authority, "but I will see to it that they both are well cared for."

"My devoted husband," I teased him with a smile. "You already take wonderful care of me, Erik, but when the baby comes, the doctor's presence will be imperative."

"Yes, I know," he reported without the lightness I was seeking as he still surveyed Dr. Stevens critically. "Doctor, I am not a man who trusts others, and putting the care of my wife and child in _your_ hands makes me wary, _but_ Christine has faith in you and I will let her make the decision. So come spring, the instant we require your presence, I will fetch you, day or night, whatever the cost may be for your services."

He spoke stern and inarguable, but beneath it, I knew he was not happy with the situation. He'd deliver the baby on his own if he had the knowledge, and I almost worried he _would_ _seek_ the knowledge, such was his paranoia to trust others. But good to his word, he fixed his stare on me and left the decision in my hands. I nodded to them both, but kept more polite and congenial in the terms.

"Yes, will you, Dr. Stevens?" I asked instead of commanded. "I would prefer someone to deliver the baby who understands our unusual circumstance."

"Ah, your worry over deformities."

My attention darted to Erik as he tensed and clenched a frustrated jaw. Without a thought, I went to his side and clasped his hand in mine, praying he did not see my revelation as a deception. But he squeezed my hand gently, and to my surprise, he asked the doctor, "And do _you_ see it as a valid worry, Doctor?"

"That's impossible to say, Monsieur," Dr. Stevens replied with kindness and sympathetic understanding. "Such decisions are up to God and no one else. But…your deformity, were you born with it? It was not the cause of external sources?"

I squeezed Erik's hand back as he answered, "I was born with it, and…I'd rather our child did not suffer for my misfortune."

"Even if such a thing occurred and the child shared your disfigurement, it would not be your fault." Shaking his head with adamancy, the doctor spoke from a source of wisdom as he said, "Many parents whose children are born with imperfections blame God or themselves, neither of which are applicable. Everyone wants someone to blame and a way to understand what they cannot fathom. They dub abnormalities as curses and fall to their shortcomings instead of exceed them. More important than a face or a flaw is love. If a child is loved, it learns acceptance; that comes from the parents. _You_ must teach your child that differences make it unique and special, not cursed. Your child's first view of itself comes from _you_ and no one else. Teach your baby love, and nothing will be as important as that."

Erik nodded but made no reply. I was the one to thank the doctor and exchange farewells. I stayed closed to my husband's side because I glimpsed another string of self-chastisement going on in his head and wondered if it had to do with his initial response to our baby. That was the only thing I could think as he silently led me onto the busy city streets where sunlight bathed us and melted snow into puddles.

Before I could ask on the subject, Erik insisted he had an errand to attend to and left me outside the market with money and a paid boy to help carry. I was not happy to watch him go and did our shopping without much thought, tossing random items into the small cart the paid boy pushed along for me. My mind was spinning situations into nightmares.

Pregnancy had this tendency to creep into my thoughts and make even the mundane into some impossible horror story. Sense told me Erik probably went to buy more manuscript paper or something else having to do with his music. He'd recently joked about learning to play the flute; perhaps he was off buying one, testing and toying with every one until he found perfection. That was a rational thought, but my reeling head scripted new stories without basis and had me believing them.

As we had entered the marketplace, we had passed paupers begging for coins. My insane imagination dragged me to memories of a prostitute once accosting Erik from our hotel. Ridiculous to consider she tracked him as I shopped for pantry staples. Ridiculous to think he'd ever accept such sinful depravity. Ridiculous to imagine him loving anyone but me let alone a dirty prostitute. And yet _that_ was where my thoughts took me.

We'd just been with the doctor, and I had been reminded how round my belly was getting and growing larger by the moment. At times, I accepted the changes reverently because that was my _child_ growing not me, but other times, I fell to self-consciousness and recalled how I'd spent my entire life small and trim. What would happen as I continued to grow? Would Erik desire me less? …Was he currently seeking someone else as I snatched apples into a fisted hand to the point of bruising the skin and tossed them into our cart, thoughtless and numb.

My head continued to spin its tales until items were purchased and Erik joined me to load them into our carriage. I kept quiet, watching him with intent eyes as if I could read his little excursion by some revealing sign. He gave nothing away and certainly carried no new flute.

I tried to let the worry go; it was heavy and leaving me anxious, and I put on a good show as we returned home and finished out our day as we usually did. He played music; I cooked supper; we ate together in seeming calm.

It wasn't until later as I cuddled on our couch that I could endure the thoughts no longer. They'd tormented every second and were torturing still. I waited until he joined me, determined I would demand explanations at first second. But he surprised me. Instead of his usual seat beside me, he knelt on the carpet at my side, lifting free the blanket I'd carelessly tossed atop my growing belly. He uncovered it, not well hidden by my nightdress, and cupped it with his palms. I shivered; it was automatic. He could have touched me anywhere, and desire was the immediate rush through my veins.

"Erik, …what's wrong, _ange_?"

He didn't answer. He leaned close and pressed a vehement kiss to our child, holding his mouth to my stomach as if in devout worship. One kiss that said love in its silence, and he turned to lay his damaged cheek to the spot, gazing into my eyes and showing me every vulnerable sensation in his soul.

"Do you love me, Erik?" I softly asked and traced his good cheek with my fingertips.

"Of course. You truly feel a need to ask?"

"Do you love our baby?"

He hesitated before nodding, turning to set another kiss to my belly. "I love you both more than I ever thought possible. And…it's true, Christine. It's no exaggeration for your sake to keep your affection. I loved our baby from the first mention, but I was afraid I didn't deserve such a blessing, that I wasn't allowed good things and the child must be damaged, but…as the doctor said today, damaged is a perception. We can teach our child different than that."

I nodded agreement and savored my victory. I'd wanted to get Erik to love our baby, and now… It was exactly as I'd dreamed, but…

"Where did you go today when we were in the city?" My question stole the love in his gaze and replaced it with solemnity…and fear. "What…what is it? You don't want to say; I can tell."

He heaved a desolate sigh, his arm weaving about my hips to keep me close. "No, I don't want to say, but…it may be imperative that you know. Our sailor friends are back in the city. That's why I was so eager to make a trip; I've been anticipating their arrival. That cargo ship travels back and forth between America and France. These past months have included a trip home, and I paid them before they left to retrieve information for me."

"Oh?" I felt his fear seeping into me. "What sort of information?"

Blunt and seemingly emotionless, he told me, "The Vicomte de Chagny knows we are in America. He was already aware that we'd traveled by boat, but now thanks to our mutinous friends, he knows right where to find us. Evidently, money didn't imply to keep such facts secret. They practically gave him the answers he wanted. I knew he wouldn't just give you up, but I hoped he'd be at a loss for open avenues to pursue. Now…well, let's just say I'll be keeping a close eye on incoming travel into the city."

"Do you truly think he'd sail halfway across the world to find us?"

"If he believes and rightly so, mind you, that you were taken without consent, I am doubtless. By his standards, you are a prisoner, stolen from his care and forced to marry and bed a monster."

"But that's not true!" I quickly insisted, cupping his cheek in my palm. "I love you. Promise you know that without question."

Hesitation, but the nod I wanted rubbed my stomach as he gave it and said, "You love me… I knew it even before you admitted it, but what happens to that love when our baby arrives with a malformed face and the Vicomte appears like a gallant knight ready to carry you off to a life of perfect children and beauty?"

"The Vicomte will arrive and find that I am not the same girl he once loved. I was _never_ that girl, but I played a role because it was expected. Now I have the life I want with a husband and baby, and he could propose with every advantage _both of you_ are so convinced I want and it won't change my choice." Though he nodded again, I wasn't sure he fully believed, and desperate to lighten heavy air, I admitted, "Thank God it is only the Vicomte I have to worry about! I was terrified you'd left me and were solicited by ladies with loose morals and smaller physiques than I currently possess."

My attempt had the desired result as he arched a brow and regarded me, incredulously astounded. "Ladies with loose morals? Is this about that prostitute again? That was months ago, and _that_ is your concern? I have to vie to keep you from old lovers who had a piece of your heart and a valid proposal of marriage, and you are speaking to me of random women on the street?"

"I'm getting bigger."

"The _baby_ is getting bigger, you jealous little thing, and truth be told, I consider every added curve an extra spot of beauty on an already exquisite canvas." His hands fondly stroked my belly, his fingers splaying wide to cover its full swell, and I felt the imprint even through my nightdress. "And you will grow, and I will love you more with each inch. More skin to kiss, more nuances to adore. You are always perfection, Christine, and more beautiful than ever with my child in your womb."

He kissed the swell again, and I shivered, unable to disguise desire as it played in my hazy eyes and told him what I wanted. In the course of my thoughts, he bid in a husky tone, "Shall I prove it to you, _ange_? Shall I carry my beautiful wife to bed and make it clear how deeply I long for every inch of skin? May I weave passion in kisses everywhere, Christine?"

"Yes, oh please, _ange_, everywhere."

He delighted in my uninhibited agreement, and with one more kiss to my stomach, he set out to prove every word as fact.


	8. Chapter 8

I'm so excited that people are interested not only in a published story collection but in a cover contest! Yay! Details will be posted later this week on my website and Facebook page. My biggest task now is deciding which stories to put in the collection. If anyone has an opinion about what stories they'd love to see in print, I'd love to hear it! Please feel free to message me with your favorites! :)

Enjoy chapter eight!

Chapter Eight

I wanted to discount Erik's fear that the Vicomte would seek us out, but though I was careful to keep my notions silent, they reigned free in my mind. I had an unqualified fear in reliving that last night at the opera house, ultimatums and potential death, my Erik nowhere to be found and the Opera Ghost in his place. I wanted to assure myself that it couldn't happen again. The last time Erik had been trying to prove what was in my heart all along, and this time I was no longer the naïve child favoring denial if it were easier, but…if Raoul appeared, I had no certainty Erik wouldn't seek extreme measures as his only option.

Winter dragged by with so much snow that it finally lost its appeal to me and was called a nuisance. It seemed as if it would never end and spring would never arrive, and as the baby kept growing and me with it, I was as eager for pregnancy to end as the winter snows.

I was uncomfortable. The baby was a heavy burden to carry, and I had aches everywhere. And the kicking! Our little one was certainly active. Erik found it amusing to make me lie on the couch after supper and watch our baby perform acrobatics, kicking so hard sometimes that we could practically _see_ a little foot by shape alone. It was as disturbing as it was intriguing, and even more so when kicking gave way to shifting about and we watched rippled motion across my abdomen, abrupt and sudden and bringing laughter to both our lips.

One night as we gazed at the little show and took turns touching the spot where the kicks were most pronounced, Erik said, "We have yet to call it anything but 'baby'. It's going to need a name, you realize."

"Of course! But it's difficult to decide upon names when we haven't truly met."

"And you don't care to debate options until the baby is here?"

"I think we'll simply _know_ the right name at first sight. It will…_fit_. And besides, we won't know until then if it is a boy or girl. Why waste time debating names for each gender when we could narrow our search in half?" It made sense to me and was in fact true. In my delight over Erik's acceptance of our child, a name felt like the most mundane decision of all.

"And have you any inclination which gender it will be?" Erik inquired with a fascinated grin. "Boy or girl? Have you a speculation?"

"I refuse to speculate. What happens if I'm wrong? I'm our baby's mother; I'm supposed to just _know_."

Erik chuckled and shook his head. "_Know_? Intuitively without doubt? That's impossible and preposterous! It will not make you a bad mother to be wrong guessing our baby's gender from the womb. I promise you that. A guess, Christine. Or a wish. Which do you hope for more?"

"I refuse to answer such a question! I have to be unbiased. Would _you_ care to answer such a quandary? Predict for me with your Opera Ghost magic."

"My magic is limited to making traps and tricks and being a step ahead of two bumbling managers," he taunted back, and I giggled with a rush of memories.

"But your magical powers work best on sopranos with high notes to burn. Isn't that right? Sopranos swoon beneath your persuasions, and as a former swooning soprano myself, you should have valid insight."

"Don't tease, swooning soprano. Your stage days are not over. You can expect a rigorous routine to get your voice back into shape once our baby is here, and as to my magical powers and their insight, I am going to bravely _guess_ that it is a boy…but I would not be sorry with a little girl either. In truth, Christine, I have more hopes for a full face and a healthy start than a specific gender. I could make plenty of musical dreams for a boy or a girl."

"Well, if we keep at this, you may have a full orchestra someday."

He narrowed eyes on me and replied, "We haven't even acquired the one yet, and you're insinuating you want more? Let's give _one_ a chance first please."

But I didn't take note and pushed, "Just imagine it a moment, Erik. This house loud and full of the laughter of children, creaking floors above our heads right now as they play no matter that we instructed them to bed. We'd again command them to bed, and they'd beg for a story first and sit eagerly at their Daddy's feet to hear him spin tales of the Opera Ghost and then sing them a lullaby."

He listened to my musings and pressed another kiss to my belly as he suddenly vowed, "I am going to do my best to be a good father. I promise, Christine. I want to give you your dream with a house full of children. You deserve every wish fulfilled."

"I already have my wishes fulfilled. Every other dream is just extra." I beamed at him as the baby kicked again and drew our focus.

Those were the good moments of pregnancy, the _only_ ones I wanted to recall. The rest… Suffice to say, I was unprepared for the emotional intensity that existed in a blazing inferno constantly flaming beyond my control. I cried _all the time_. Everything triggered tears for some unexplainable reason. Erik's music, the first birds and buds of spring, even chopping vegetables for supper!

Erik came into the kitchen one afternoon to find me in tears and commented lightly, "Cutting irregular sizes again?"

"Yes," I gushed and swiped tears away with my sleeve. "One would think that by now I'd have mastered such a simple task, but I am a failure at cooking!"

"Because you can't cut everything the exact same size?" he posed with a doubtful scoff.

"The vegetables will cook unevenly now!" I snapped as if he should know such a thing. "Don't you understand? Some will be soft and mushy and the others still firm and crunchy!"

He huffed in growing perturbation and sought to appease me, "Well, I enjoy a variety. This way, texture will be a constant surprise."

Sense told me to smile and enjoy his teasing, but I couldn't seem to feel anything but annoyed as I glared in frustration. "Why are you in my kitchen? Shouldn't you be at the piano?"

"_Your_ kitchen," he repeated but just shook his head. "All right, I'll let your current temperament go and simply pray this baby comes soon."

"Why?" I whined, more tears pouring down my cheeks. "Because I'm huge and unattractive?"

"No," he retorted, brushing his fingers along my face for me, "because you are crazy and short-tempered. You've basically taken up my role of impassioned Opera Ghost and react with far too many emotions before sense catches up. I will excuse it simply because after the first few insane outbursts, I read a medical text on pregnancy and learned you can't control it. It's the baby turning you into…_me_ or my former self anyway."

His words were spoken like facts and yet I took them to heart and pleaded, "I'm sorry. I don't want to be _you_."

"I know, _ange_," he crooned with the hint of a smile. "Would it make you feel better if I told you that it fascinates me? I'm making a detailed list of everything that transforms you into a crazy person, and once pregnancy is over, I'm going to pose each one and see what reaction I get. I truly don't think in your normal frame of mind you'll cry over vegetable sizes, but then again, I could be wrong. It will be a fun experiment."

"Experiment?"

"No more tears, _amour_." His fingers caressed my wet face, and he wiped the corners of my eyes with his sleeve, which made my lips curve in an unavoidable smile. "Now listen. The reason I put aside my music for the afternoon is because I have been upstairs in the soon-to-be nursery, making notes of what we still need to purchase. The baby is set to arrive in a few weeks, and we are lacking in our accoutrements. I intend to head into the city tomorrow and collect a few things."

"The city… May I come with you?"

He chuckled and shook his head. "_No_. Definitely not. The last time we went, you cried for an hour in front of a dress shop, insisting you'd never fit into pretty gowns again. I had to carry you to the carriage after the shop owner came out and made us leave." He snickered a bit as he added, "My mask didn't get nearly as many stares as _you_ did that day."

Oh, I'd forgotten about that! It pained me to admit Erik was right, and pregnancy was indeed turning me into a crazy person. "Well, …I promise to stay away from the dress shop."

"Still _no_."

"Why? Are you going to be looking for another, better wife who doesn't cry at the drop of a hat?" I whimpered, and the tears fell anew.

"Yes, exactly that!" he taunted even as he slipped his arms around me and pulled me as close as he could considering the large swell of our baby between us. "And one who cuts vegetables into uniform pieces." Kissing the tip of my nose, he replied, "If you turn this into another conversation about a prostitute on a street corner, I will rival you for the title of Opera Ghost. I may delight in this jealous streak we've learned you possess, but _not_ when it makes you cry. You forget that your husband is _no_ Don Juan Triumphant with women chasing at his heels. You've concocted the part _for me_ in your pregnant hysteria, and I will not accept the role. I vow to you that I am intending a quick trip to purchase necessities for the baby and then a hasty return to my beautiful wife."

But I knew better. "And a hunt for information if the Vicomte de Chagny has arrived in the city."

His immediate somberness was his answer even before he found words. "I don't favor being surprised. I want to know the threat before it lands on our doorstep."

"Isn't there a danger for a man in a mask to be moving about the city if the Vicomte is hunting for us?"

"I am accustomed to lurking in shadows. _You_, my _pregnant_ wife who cries in front of shop windows, would draw far more attention than I want. Do you now understand why you cannot accompany me?"

I reluctantly nodded. I certainly did not want to place Erik in harm's way, especially considering I had no idea how far Raoul would take things. It was my greatest nightmare of late. Raoul coming to take me from Erik with pistols and revenge driving him along. Yet sill, I found myself begging, "Promise me that if you do come across the Vicomte, you _won't_ kill him. Promise it, Erik. You are my choice, but Raoul is my friend. I'm going to break his heart. Please don't make me the cause of murder. Please be a better man than that. Raoul doesn't deserve death for thinking to protect me."

He glared with annoyance at my words and grimaced to consent. I had no guarantee he was being truthful. As far as he was concerned, Raoul was coming to steal his family. Playing fair wasn't necessarily an option, but for _me_, …I prayed he meant his agreement. I didn't want to hurt anyone else. Broken hearts made that fate inevitable; murder was overkill. 

* * *

><p>As far as Erik could tell, the Vicomte de Chagny was not in the city. I didn't push for more facts besides the valid one that Erik never crossed paths with him that day. Either that meant Raoul hadn't arrived yet or that he was being stealthy and careful in his search for us. We'd have an answer either way soon enough.<p>

The nursery was set up and ready for our little one; I cried to glimpse it full of the furnishings Erik had purchased, all white wood and hand-painted with sweet, baby animals. He'd even bought an array of clothes in yellows and greens, insisting that as soon as we knew if it were boy or girl, he would make a special trip for blues or pinks. I adored him for it and held a little yellow pajama between my hands imagining holding something so tiny that it fit into such an outfit. I created pictures in my mind's eye and never called myself naïve to envision a perfect baby without scars or deformities. I preferred to _dream_ and _pray_ rather than dwell and fear.

Then one night it wasn't just a fantasy anymore…

I was asleep and dreamed the first pains. They weren't real to my wandering subconscious, not until one so sharp that it stabbed through my entire body. I awoke unable to breathe until it subsided, and shaking so hard that I could barely reason what was happening, I tossed the covers off and found blood smearing my nightdress.

With a gasp of horror, I forced myself to get out of bed before the pain came back as more than an ache. Erik wasn't in bed; I heard the soft play of piano keys in echoes beyond my door. A sweet lullaby. He didn't know that I'd heard him playing and perfecting it for weeks in the middle of the night when I was supposed to be asleep. I knew it was a gift for the baby, but it was about to be a shattered secret as I stumbled my way into the hall, clutching my stomach with trembling arms.

"Erik!" I shouted from the upper landing. "_Please_!" I couldn't reason more words, but within the first sound, I heard frantic motion as he rushed to catch me in his arms. He saw blood, and I saw the terror in his eyes.

"Sshh," he crooned as if fear was inconsequential, and without effort, he lifted me into his arms and carried me back to bed. "Lie down. I am going to get the doctor right now."

"But what if the baby-"

"Sshh," he insisted again and stroked his cool fingers along my brow, so gentle that I longed to cry. "This is all normal. I read about it in that book about babies. I need to go and get the doctor before the pains get too close together. _Trust me_, Christine," he begged and kissed my forehead a dozen times before lifting his mask into place.

I didn't want to be alone, but what choice did I have? The disadvantage in seclusion was that we had no one but each other to depend on. No servants to send for us. No neighbors to come and at least keep company. And within the breath, Erik was out the door, and I had nothing to do but pray.

My mind could be a cavernous wonderland sometimes. As a young girl, it was responsible for writing me stories of angels. The Angel of Music coming down from heaven to love me and be with me always. Of course reality had had its flaws, but the ending was the same. I fell into that story now and prayed the same words I once had used for the Angel's presence. A vow to be obedient and grateful if God would only send my Angel.

I repeated the words in breathless tones as pains came and went. Not even their ferocity stole the words from my lips as I clutched fists to the bed covers and tears poured unconsciously into my pillow.

Pain, pain, more pain. I felt as if my body were my enemy, fighting to expel my child like it no longer belonged in the protection of my womb. No, it was time for it to come out and face the world, and I hoped Erik and I would both be strong enough for that.

"Christine!" Erik's voice was so welcomed that I was certain I'd imagined it at first. Only the graze of his fingers to my tear-stained cheeks told me he was real and present, hovering at my bedside and gazing at me with incessant fear in his eyes. "Well?" he demanded and only then did I notice Dr. Stevens half a step behind him, tossing off his coat and digging through his medical bag at the same time.

"Well," he repeated with a calmness neither Erik nor I shared. "I would say that you both are about to become parents. Would you care to wait outside the room, Monsieur? Most husbands do not favor this part."

"No, no," he quickly insisted, and I was so grateful that as he caught my hand, I squeezed tight while words suffocated beneath another pain. "I will _not_ leave her."

The doctor did not argue, already making assessments and examinations and ignoring Erik's glaring watch, the guardian angel at my side. My pains were coming quicker without gaps in between, and while sense told me that meant the baby was on its way, an irrational voice in my head insisted every trepidation I didn't want to consider: dying in childbirth, my baby never breathing air, all dreams shattered. I was _terrified_ because the pain was so great. I fought a fear that this was the end and not the beginning we hoped.

I don't remember much about giving birth. The details were sparse and hazy in the midst of feeling as if I were torn in two. I remember the doctor's calm voice and commands, always assuring and adamant, never even a flicker of concern. I remember having to fight to comprehend his words and obey. 'Push', but what did that mean? I had to think before my body consented and did as asked, and even as I pushed, strength was difficult to come by. And then I remember how I made it through; I remember my angel always at my side holding my hand. I remember his voice, soft and gentle, filling my ears in wordless song and easing me to my soul. _He_ was the reason I survived childbirth and the reason that a song became a baby's frantic cry, resonating off the walls to announce its arrival.

And the next thing I recalled clearly was my son being set into my arms and gazing at me through grey, unfocused eyes.

Oh God, his face… Erik and I sobbed the same tears…because our son was _perfect_. Not a single scar on his plump, little cheeks or his flawless brow, nothing but a smattering of dark hair upon his tiny head and soft whimpers from pink lips.

"Thank God," I heard Erik whisper beneath his breath as he delicately touched his son's cheek with shaking fingers. As I lifted my gaze from the warm bundle in my arms, I read the love and adoration on my husband's masked face to observe our baby, but as that look shifted to me, I saw admiration and pride added.

"You are amazing," he breathed and grazed the same delicate caresses to my face. "Both of you. I don't deserve either of you, but I love you so much."

I cried as he set his forehead to mine, wishing to rid him of his mask but aware that the doctor was still in our presence, observing the scene. Later, I promised my tingling fingers and settled with touching our baby's soft cheek instead. Perfection. 

* * *

><p>"Bastien," I declared proudly as I gazed at Erik's unmasked face over our son's sleeping head.<p>

"_That_ is the name he exudes?" Erik posed with a cocked brow, leaning close from his seat on the foot of the mattress. "Are you sure you'd rather not name him after your father…or one of the great composers? Wolfgang? Ludwig? Johann?"

"Certainly not!" I exclaimed, wrinkling my nose with the very idea of calling our son into dinner someday as he played in the yard by yelling 'Wolfgang' at the top of my lungs. "No, no, _never_. He needs something as beautiful as he is."

"He is a _boy_, you realize. Beautiful should not be applied to boys."

"I call you beautiful," I retorted with a grin.

"I am _ugly_, and your perception is askew because you love me. Our son, however, will be _handsome_, not beautiful. But…I will not argue with your choice of name if when we have a daughter, I may name her after you."

Daughter… I savored hearing Erik speak of more children, especially considering that since his arrival the week before, the baby had done little more than cry at all hours of the day and night.

"It isn't traditional to name a daughter after her mother," I replied. "Typically, _sons_ are named after their father. Would you like to name the baby Erik?"

"_No_," he said firmly, and I was unsurprised at his choice. "Bastien it is. But as concession, I may therefore name our future daughter after one of the great heroines of opera: Marguerite, Juliette, …Aminta," he added his own creation with a smirk, and I giggled at such arrogance, thrilled to see it.

For the past week, he'd given me little more than wide eyes and a fear for anything concerning the baby. It took him days after the birth before he even held his son for the first time, so _any_ confidence warmed my heart. My delight only grew as he did not hesitate to take the baby from my arms, cradling him as I had taught, delicate as if he held fragile porcelain.

"What do you think, Bastien?" Erik asked quietly. I marveled over the image of my husband's musician hands, gentle and tender about our small infant. Such wondrous things he could create! I was forever in awe of every gift he gave me. "Well, of course you like the name better when your mother says it. Every word off her lips is its own song. And have you heard her lullabies? The voice of an angel!"

"Erik," I chided, "have you been listening as I rock the baby to sleep?"

"Well, of course! It was the voice I first loved, and I've lived months without its song. I greedily cling to every note you sing to our son and am slightly jealous."

"Indeed?"

"He's already taken your voice and most of your waking minutes. I fear it will always be a struggle for attention with him about," he insisted, pretending to be serious but cracking to the hint of a grin whenever he glanced for agreement at our sleeping baby. "And then we'll have more children, and I'll be lucky if I get the scraps of love left behind."

"Ridiculous man!" I gushed. "And will scraps of love be enough for you?"

"I will soak them up like a sponge and savor every nuance, and they will be plenty to sustain me as long as you promise never to leave."

It was that same fear, one my mind called absurd, but to him, it still held weight. Even with our perfect baby in his arms and talk of a house full of children, he still feared I would change my mind and go.

"How could I possibly leave?" I demanded, desperate for lightness to return. "You are a good father, but you are no mother. My place is necessary now and forever."

"Promise it," he commanded with a solemn air as he met my gaze over Bastien's dark head.

"I promise it again and again. This is my home, and you are my family. I will never leave you, Erik."

But I knew where the fear laid. It was in the mere suggestion of a Vicomte searching for us. Here was our little family, together and loved, and Erik was unaccustomed to happy endings. He seemed to be waiting for everything to vanish, and in his eyes, the Vicomte was the catalyst to destruction. 

* * *

><p>Bastien was not an easy baby; he cried…a lot. Crying and sleeping were his two activities of choice those first weeks. I liked to consider him temperamental like his father, quick to annoyance when things weren't right, and a little Erik in the making. It would have been more amusing if I had more than a couple hours of sleep every night. I was exhausted, and one night the fatigue caught up so quickly that I didn't recall falling asleep. I awoke with a start, disoriented and anxious. It was dark beyond our bedroom windows, not yet morning, and I leapt out of bed when I did not recall the usual intervals of frantic crying. Oh Lord, had he cried and I slept through it! Perhaps cried himself out and…and what? Terror clawed at my throat as I stumbled into the hall, frantic to get to the nursery and check on the baby. But…I suddenly froze in place with a gradual smile.<p>

The sound of the piano, gentle and sweet, filtered up the staircase, and from between the rails, I peeked down into the parlor's wide doorway. There was the cradle, situated near the piano's belly, and the baby lay within its blankets, wide awake and staring with tranquil eyes as if listening in rapt attention. Never a noise, not even a peep. He was pensive as Erik played one of Mozart's adagio movements, and with an anxiousness that kept me light on my feet, I crept downstairs to spy on the scene.

I didn't want to interrupt the moment, but the bottom stair creaked and all eyes averted to my intrusion as I raised guilty brows and prayed for no screams from either of my gentlemen.

But to my shock, Erik was on his feet and rushing to me with fanatic excitement, clasping my hands and dragging me closer to the baby. "Our son is a genius!" he proudly declared as I regarded him oddly.

"Perhaps."

"_Truly_, a genius, Christine! Not even a month old, and he already has his own tastes in music! What an ear on this child! I swear we've made something special!"

"Obviously," I agreed, but Erik's enthusiasm would not lessen, only grew as he leaned urgently over the cradle. I did not speak my thoughts that he was readily putting his face in our son's line of view after having ducked its stark deformities in shadows at every chance the past weeks. Bastien still did not cry, only watched with curiosity I suspected he got from me.

"You don't believe me," Erik accused with a chuckle. "You think I am an overly proud father exaggerating with the belief that my offspring is better than any other because it is _mine_, but just watch and see. He will show you clearly what music is his preference." Rushing back to the piano, he instructed again, "Watch the baby."

With a soft huff, I conceded and fixed eyes on my tiny little prince. He looked back at me with his sweet, grey eyes, but I thought for the briefest instant that I saw a flicker of Erik's arrogance reflected in their depths. It was as if he understood the challenge and was eager to prove himself as his Daddy's genius prodigy.

Music filled the room. Vivaldi's Allegro from Spring, and I was astounded to see Bastien grow fussy and kick urgent legs, stirring his blankets and whining in growing volume.

"He doesn't like Vivaldi," Erik reported from the piano, and thankfully, before the baby could let out the wail I saw forming, the music reverted back to Mozart. Almost immediately, Bastien relaxed. "But Mozart, he appreciates. I have yet to try others. …Well, except my own. Watch this, Christine."

The chords deviated and modulated to the key Erik was after without ever ceasing sound. From one lyrical melody to the next. I recognized it as the lullaby Erik had worked on so diligently in the middle of the night. Perhaps Bastien had heard echoes of it from the womb because this one made him coo and softly sigh before slowly drifting off to sleep. I was astounded, and as soon as I was certain he was off in dreams, I crept to Erik's side and sat upon the piano bench beside him.

"How did you figure that out?" I quietly asked, only whispers above the music.

"He was crying, and you were too asleep to tend to him. So I went and got him. I was about to arise anyway and work on my music. I didn't think anything of it; I just thought perhaps he'd like to hear the piano. But…well, you saw it. He has a palate for music, and knows his tastes. What a child! I cannot wait to try more with him! Since he has shown interest in Mozart, I'll attempt Hadyn next, but then…" I glimpsed a twinkle in his eyes as Erik glanced back at the sleeping baby. "_Everything_. I intend to start his musical education from this point on."

I laughed aloud with such news and reminded, "He can't even hold his own head upright! And here you talk of musical education!"

"Why not? You underestimate the child _we_ created. I am not expecting him to play piano sonatas at three like Mozart."

"Not _yet_," I teased.

"_But_ I shall hold him and poke pitches, start training his ear, fill his mind with the classics. You sing him lullabies; what is the difference in this?"

I didn't protest; I found it far too sweet and adored the excitement in Erik to share his passion in life with his son. Sighing soft and content, I laid my head to Erik's shoulder and watched his hands as he played.

"You can go and rest," he offered. "I'll take care of Bastien if he awakens again."

"I'm too happy right here," I decided and closed my eyes as Erik's lullaby wrapped its melody around me.

"Then here is where you shall stay," he whispered and turned to graze a kiss to my crown. I felt it lead me into dreams.


	9. Chapter 9

So I went to see LND last night, and…well, it was something. The music was beautiful! :)

Anyway, I posted a few rules for the cover contest on my website and Facebook page. Please check it out if you are interested or artistic or just want something fun to do! I'm super excited to see what you guys come up with! Just feeling like I'm doing this with you all makes it exciting and makes a project I debated for the past year into something I'm now anticipating! Thank you!

And on that note, a few of you heard as I was freaking out yesterday, but I had news that "The Devil's Galley", the first of my angel series, is coming out in a few weeks! I didn't know it would be so soon! I don't have an exact date yet, but as soon as I do, I will update my pages with that info!

Chapter Nine

Erik was serious about teaching Bastien music. He found it a game to test various composers and watch our son's reactions. I was dubious to believe an infant could tell the difference, but Erik pointed fanatically whenever he proved his hypothesis. I was demoted from observing altogether when both Erik and Bastien gave favorable reactions to a Bach fugue, and I commented that it was too complex for a baby's approval. Hoisted from my own parlor, and yet called upon whenever a new discovery was made. I enjoyed this game to no end, sitting idly with a cup of tea and letting father and son share time together. I found no impetus to complain.

Bastien was napping one afternoon when Erik rushed into the kitchen. "He didn't like the violin's timbre. Did you hear the wails he gave with first pitches?"

"Yes," I reported with a shrug, "but I was previously tossed out for my unrefined tastes and thought it best to let _you_ deal with your mistake on your own. You managed well enough."

"After I went half-deaf from the shrieking! He has quite a set of lungs! Thankfully, the piano is a suitable substitute to excessive rocking. I play, he listens and falls asleep. The violin was a debacle, but I blame the high timbre. I think he prefers a lower resonance. I know I was eager to study flute, but perhaps another string, cello maybe, might appease Bastien."

"You intend to learn an instrument because our infant son might favor its timbre?" I stated and laughed beneath my breath when he nodded without pause.

"And I thought we might take a trip into the city tomorrow to buy one. The weather is growing warm; the last days have been fair. What do you say to an outing?"

I couldn't recall the last time I'd left the house and met his idea with avid approval. "Yes, please. I am quite eager to return to _living_ our life now that the baby is here and well."

"Indeed… Does that mean a return to everything, Christine?"

I knew that huskiness in his voice. Amidst pregnancy's end and the baby's arrival, it had been far too long without such desirous provocation. My body ached in eager reply, and catching his hand, I pulled it to my lips and set a suggestive kiss against his palm, gazing at him with my longing vivid and inarguable. I made it clear what I wanted and felt him jump with a start as I let my tongue loose to trail the curved lines within his hand's cupped shape.

"Christine!" he gasped and dragged me out of my chair, catching my lips in a kiss so fierce that it made my head spin. I was reminded that kisses had been little more than hasty in the past weeks. How I missed the sensation of his misshapen mouth on mine! Soft and devouring at the same time, his taste upon my tongue and teasing the surface until I whimpered for more.

His hands had my hips in their grasp and pulled me to his aching hardness, and I shivered with delight. It was strangely awkward to embrace and be flush together after so long with the bulge of the baby in between. It felt as if we'd found each other again, and I relished every second, arching firmer against him and tempting onward.

Gripping my gown in his frustrated hands, I was doubtless he intended to tear it open and take me right then. …And he would have if not for the shrill cry that arose from the parlor.

With an annoyed groan, Erik kissed me, and I missed his body's impression the second we were apart. "This is not over," he vowed as I scurried to get the baby, but a smile remained on my lips.

It was odd to consider my body as my own again, and I'd been apprehensive to adjust to so many changes in one month. But to know my husband was as anxious to surrender to his desire as I was built my confidence and anticipation. It was as if we would finally have a real marriage again.

Nearly within the minute that Bastien fell asleep that night, we were at each other with groping hands and desperate lips, starved for every touch. We relearned every nuance of love with fingers and mouths, kissing and stroking in a fitful restlessness that never stilled. And when we were finally one, I cried tears that poured from some relieved well of bliss in my heart. This was happiness and exquisite, and I cried harder with a desperate wish that it never end. 

* * *

><p>It was bright and sunny the next day for Bastien's first journey into the city. We brought the beautiful pram Erik had purchased, and abandoning our carriage, I smiled to push the baby in its soft cushioned basket. Erik strolled beside, mask in place and yet ignoring every expression but mine. The Opera Ghost persona might have been unsuited to him, but fatherhood granted a new poise and self-assurance that I found a perfect fit. Bastien gave Erik a purpose, and that made him walk taller with a real reason, not a fabricated disguise.<p>

I wanted the day to be special and create memories of our baby's first outing, and eager to indulge me, Erik brought us to a little bakery to purchase pastries. We sat at a small outdoor table as the sun's rays warmed skin and told spring's arrival and ate with the baby's pram in between us, doting over him at every chance. And it was all the more endearing because I knew Erik did not favor dawdling among people or attempting to awkwardly eat with the mask in place. He did it for Bastien and me, and once again, I called us our own little family.

After a lovely walk on busy city streets, Erik left me and the baby among some sidewalk vendors selling their wares, making me promise to buy something for the baby and for myself while he went to inspect the cellos as the music shop. He had no reservation to go alone, and I could conclude that every trip to the city must include a stop. Well, certainly! He was never out of manuscript paper, and new scores appeared without explanation often enough to reveal his ventures. I liked it because it meant he was being social even if it were on a small scale. Knowing Erik, he'd probably test every cello in stock before making a decision, and if he didn't find the perfect instrument, he wouldn't settle. No, he'd test every one in the city if need be!

I contemplated him in the music shop testing cellos and cradling each as carefully as he cradled our son as I shopped and admired hand-knit articles and carved baby toys. I wondered if I could convince Erik that a rattle was a percussive instrument and therefore important to our son's musical training, and as I picked up a blue one and tested it before Bastien's inquisitive interest, I went suddenly numb, petrified in my place and staring with widening eyes.

"Good afternoon, Mademoiselle Daaé… Dear God, Christine, you are a mirage to eyes that have created your vision on every face I passed. I thought I'd never find you."

"Raoul…" The rattle tumbled from my hand to the ground, and with a heated blush upon my cheeks, I stooped and picked it up, replacing it upon the vendor's booth with violently trembling hands. "What…what are you doing here?"

A silly question when I already knew the answer, but I could not rationalize a better one. Words were heavy and uncomfortable on my lips. Raoul… He looked the same, right down to the affection in his kind eyes, and it was odd to me. I'd changed so much in our separation, and he was the same boy I'd left behind.

Raoul surveyed me with mirrored scrutiny, and as his eyes passed over me, they landed on the baby with a somber solemnity that made me shudder. "So this…is the bastard's child," he stated, voice thick with despair. "I had hoped… But it's been almost a year and certainly… I couldn't have kept him from touching you, not an ocean away, and a child… It shouldn't be a surprise, and yet seeing it alive and existing makes the horror a reality. I'm so sorry, Christine."

And he meant it. The apology was anchored to his heart as if he needed forgiveness when I'd always loved another man. _He_ was sorry, but he believed _he_ had failed me. He refused to acknowledge anything else.

"Sorry? But how can anyone regret a baby? He's…my child," I stammered, tripping over an explanation when I knew he couldn't understand.

"Of course, yours," Raoul conceded, and without asking permission, he bent to the pram and formed a smile for Bastien's curious stare. "He looks like you, Christine. I can see your face and thankfully no trace of that monster's. To think _he_ had a right to make a child with you!" He grimaced his distaste and spat, "This poor child to have _that_ as his father!"

Raoul extended a perfect hand and touched Bastien's round cheek fondly, and sense abruptly returned to me, inspiring my motherly guard as I drew the pram back beyond his reach and insisted, "Don't touch my son."

"Why?" Raoul inquired with surprise. "He is an innocent baby. I would never hold a child accountable for his father's sins. He did not ask to be born under such circumstances. And…equally, he is nothing to be ashamed of. I would never judge you for having this child, Christine. Given the situation, you had no choice. I understand that, and if anything, I am in awe of your strength and perseverance, but…I'm here now. You need not carry this charade further. I came to save you from this agony."

"Save me…" I felt like I could not comprehend. It was such a shock to see Raoul, to have him before me when I'd been sure I'd _never_ be in his presence again. Raoul here in America, having traveled across the ocean to _save me_. It didn't make sense because I didn't want it.

"My poor Christine," he went on with a disparaging shake of his head. "I can never forgive myself for what happened. I keep reliving that last night and seeking the answer that would have kept him from taking you. But how can one stop a madman? You would have given yourself to save _me_, and he tricked us all to let us go unscathed. I should have suspected something, should have had a guard outside your room, should have gone to bed with you that night. I never should have left you alone and susceptible. It was my own shortcomings that made it easy for the bastard to steal you away as if you were his."

"I _am_ his," I insisted, unable to quit trembling. I wanted to appear brave and convicted, but to hear Raoul speak words he believed… I felt guilt more than courage even as I stated, blunt and inarguable, "I'm married now, Raoul. Nothing will change that, and your journey was for nothing."

"How can you say that? The bastard _stole_ you! _My_ fiancée, and forced a marriage upon you under the pretext of a lie."

"I married him freely. I gave consent."

"Did he leave much choice otherwise? Open your eyes, Christine. The bastard has had you for nearly a year. You had his child; of course, you feel attachment, maybe even affection after so long. But you're forgetting the _truth_ because of his _lies_. He kidnapped you; there is little justification for that."

"He did!" I admitted in a rush, clutching the pram with tensed fists and shaking in my anxiousness. "But I _love_ him, Raoul."

"You _think_ you love him," he corrected with such certainty that anger creased my features and a glare I hoped held more sharpness than I could grant in wavering words. "_He_ has convinced you that you love him. You'll understand once your heart is free again. Then you'll see every deception you've been fed by his monstrous lips."

"You can't take me if I don't wish to go," I quickly retorted. "And if you try, I'll scream and draw attention all around."

"Christine, …what has he said to turn me into your enemy? You _know_ me. I am not here to hurt you; I only wish to help. I _owe_ you that and the life you were supposed to have without nightmares and monsters with corpse faces. Do you not recall it, Lotte? You _begged_ me to keep you safe that night on the opera house roof. You told me _you_ were afraid of him and pleaded with me to save you from the darkness. Christine, I'm doing as _you_ asked. He terrified you, and I refuse to believe all is forgotten and turned to love."

I shook my head and demanded, "Why? I _do_ love him."

"You're confused. He took your life and forced a new one upon your shoulders; it is only expected that you'd seek the good in the horror to survive upon. But you don't need to do that anymore. I'm here to take you home."

"Home…?"

"Monsieur Vicomte! My, it's been quite a long time! I see you've exchanged pleasantries with _my_ wife and son."

I stiffened as Erik came to my side, catching my elbow and pinching tight. I knew what he was after because I felt his hand shaking. He wanted a viable grip, but the Vicomte wouldn't see it as anything but an arrogant claim.

"Monsieur," Raoul spat, glaring with hatred in his eyes. I'd never seen such loathing from him, but…I supposed one must despise the man who'd bested him and not only usurped the life the Vicomte felt was his but also attempted to kill him at last meeting. "Need I remind you that we are in public, and your Opera Ghost displays will not be met with humor and forgiveness."

"I don't need displays, Monsieur Vicomte, because I have the law on my side. Christine is legally _my wife_, and this is _my son_. If you attempt to touch either of them, I could have you thrown into jail."

"You abducted her!"

"Who is the abductor if _you_ steal _my_ wife?"

"She wasn't _your wife_ when you took her, you bastard. She was _my fiancée_. How will the law look upon a forced marriage?"

"Forced?" Erik chuckled harshly, and I shuddered with rising fear for Raoul's life. I knew that tone; I knew that voice, and memories of the maniacal insanity in the catacombs reached out from their vault and reminded me of tragedy and trauma and too much agony for a person to hold.

Bastien began to fuss in his pram, moving anxiously and whimpering on the verge of cries, and lifting terrified eyes to my husband, I begged in frantic desperation, "Let's go home, Erik. Please. This isn't good for the baby. Let's just go."

"And do you think that will solve anything?" he snapped at me with enough intensity to make me jump. His tone was loud and sharp, upsetting the baby further, and Bastien's cries matched in volume as Erik yelled with no thought to the baby, "Do you think he will simply let us go off and live our life? No, of course not. The Vicomte is your self-proclaimed hero. As far as he is concerned, it is his right to rescue you from the villain's clutches. Isn't that so, Monsieur?"

"When that villain has forced marriage upon her, raped her, made her carry his demon spawn? Yes, I feel I am _quite_ entitled."

I felt Erik tense beside me and saw murderous rage as I released the pram to clasp his arm with urgent fists and practically shout, "Let's go! _Please_! Erik, this isn't the time or place for such an argument! And Bastien…"

I didn't need to say more. The baby's incessant crying finally seemed to pierce Erik's anger. No, he wouldn't want his son to truly see the temper that lived within his father and learn fear.

But one last threat was laid as Erik growled lowly, "Stay away from my wife and child. If you dare come near them, I cannot account for my actions. They are _not_ yours; they are _mine_. And so help you God if you come after Christine."

With that and a glare that hissed murder and malice, Erik dragged the pram and me into the crowd, seeking our carriage with a fierce stride I tripped to match. I wanted to scoop up the screaming baby, to rock and shush him as the screams continued, but Erik refused to loosen his grasp on my arm until the carriage was in sight. I was upset because not even Bastien's needs surpassed the agony spinning behind Erik's fixed expression. It left me nervous to his thoughts and unsure he would share a single one with me.

True to prediction, he didn't speak a word, not on the journey home, not as we arrived and unloaded our finally sleeping son, not as he locked us in the house when we typically didn't bother with such security measures. He stayed sullen, and I valued the silence when I was nervous what would come if his temper took over. So I didn't push. I let him confine himself to the parlor and attack the piano with his fury, playing with maddened fingers and dissonant chords so ugly that the baby jolted awake and sobbed again.

I took Bastien upstairs and closed us into the nursery, rocking him gently and wishing Erik had a thought to his son. He wanted to claim the baby a genius with musical inclinations. Well, Bastien didn't like what Erik played and kept screeching at the top of his little lungs, but the sound never penetrated Erik's musical haze downstairs. No, I was sure neither of us could get through to him right now, not with Raoul's words hanging ominously over our heads.

As I bounced the baby and sought to quiet him, I picked through every phrase spoken. There were some facts in the mixture of speculation and fear, and perhaps if I didn't love Erik, Raoul would have created doubt in my mind. Perhaps if love had sprung up over the last year in each other's constant companionship, new and without as much foundation. But love had been present all along, love in spite of fear from the very first moment. Yes, I'd begged Raoul's protection, but it was _because_ I loved Erik. I wasn't supposed to. I was supposed to want the pretty and acceptable path, but I never had. It seemed ludicrous to admit it now with a wailing child in my arms and a husband beating a piano to its demise, but I wanted _this_ life with Erik in our little house, our little family. Not a word Raoul had said sunk below that valid truth.

The piano played for hours, bellowing ugly chords and rage in every piece. Eventually, Bastien grew exhausted in his tears, and with the aid of my continued rocking, he fell asleep, his little head curled tight against me as if he longed to drown out the ability to hear his father's tirade. I didn't put him down in his crib, not wanting him to awaken terrified as the music played on. I cradled him close and brushed apologetic kisses to his soft forehead, beseeching forgiveness for my once weak heart and for his father's undimmed response to a past neither of us could change.

The sun was long set, stars twinkling beyond the nursery window when the music finally stopped. Tentative with apprehension in every motion, I laid Bastien in his crib and tiptoed out of the room, debating whether I should attempt to reason with Erik now or leave it until morning's light. But…beneath every angered outburst were pain and fear. How could I let him suffer all night when I knew only I could take them away?

On careful feet, I crept downstairs and peeked into the parlor. He still sat at the piano, his finger joints taut and held above the keys as if he were half a breath from playing on.

"Erik?" I called before music stole language again.

He darted a ferocious glare to my presence, his mask never removed and mocking me with intermingled fantasies of our past. In a cold tone, he commanded, "Go to your room and lock the door. This is not a time to approach with your need to mend my soul. I am livid and could hurt even _you_ right now."

"You already have," I told him without sway, lingering in the doorframe. "I spent the evening consoling our son for your musical outburst. He can't understand why his father would know such rage, and worse yet, why he would torture us to bear it with him."

My revelation caused the crack in a set demeanor, and with a worried glance at the staircase, he demanded, "Is he all right?"

"He cried himself to sleep."

"Oh…" Guilt, despair, pain, and that self-loathing I hadn't born witness to in months, all flickering on a masked face before the Opera Ghost crumbled to pieces again. "I…I'm sorry. It made more sense to put rage on an instrument, but…perhaps that was little better, not if Bastien suffered for my zealousness."

"And me?" I offered and fought tears. "I suffered as well. I heard your pain, and I couldn't come to you and take it away. You used music to separate us when I did nothing to deserve it."

"Not yet," he retorted in solemn decision. "But you will. So…will it just be you I lose? Or will the baby go with you? I can't imagine the Vicomte would want anything of my creation. He spoke of Bastien today as if he were sin and punishment. Our baby, Christine… And he made it seem that I _raped_ you to bind you to me with a child, that I forced my desire upon you with this marriage. In his perception, you'd never want me in return. No, it _must_ be a malevolent act, and I _must_ have taken you while you screamed and fought it. That's his view of our entire marriage. You say you love me, and he believes it is manipulated."

"It's not. You know that," I replied as firm as he was on the subject.

"Do I? I sifted through the last year as I played, and I pondered it. I did steal you away, abducted you, forced a marriage without much threat but coerced just the same. I told you that you needed to _learn_ to love me and locked you away with me for weeks in a cabin. I instigated desire with a bathtub if you'll recall. I played a game to ease your fear and modesty. I wanted you, and it didn't seem such a transgression at the time, not if it convinced you to give yourself freely, and you did, …didn't you? How much of the last year is a product of my sick deceptions?"

"None of it," I assured and finally dared approach, coming to stand before his piano bench. I removed his mask with quivering fingers and touched the scars beneath. "I've _always_ loved you. I told you as much, and it was not coerced. I loved you even when I ran from you and went to Raoul, even when I agreed to marry him, during our engagement. I always loved _you_," I repeated as I caressed his face. "But your love in return scared me. I was foolish and naïve. You wanted _everything_ from me, and I wasn't certain I could give it then, not with the world shouting 'Opera Ghost' in my ears. I loved the angel, but _you_ were the angel."

"And if I go into the world mask-less, Christine, put my face and sins on display and re-stir the pot. Grant myself the Opera Ghost title once again, will you run? We are secluded from the world and its opinions. What happens if they touch us again? Will I lose you?"

"No," I said with conviction. "I've learned to trust my heart. _I love you_. I have no doubt despite anything Raoul tried to insist today. I'm not going to leave you or our son. Stop doubting when I am laying my heart so plain and exposed before you."

"Then…you are mine still?" he questioned, and I nodded without hesitation. "Mine… And he wants you to be _his_. But no, he can't have you. No, you've dubbed yourself as mine. You belong to me, and I won't ever let him take you from me."

"Promise that," I begged, my fingers moving with increasing vehemence over his features.

"I vow it on my life. You're _mine_, Christine; every detail of you belongs to me." He reached for me, his hands delving into my hair and wrestling it free of its pins. "These curls belongs to me, every silken tress and coil, and this body…" Fingers caught and fisted in my gown, tugging until the clasps faltered and parted and he could drag it free. "This body is _mine_," he stated and ripped my chemise in his haste to be rid of it.

"Yes," I agreed and in turn, unbuttoned his collar and shirt, "and this body is _mine_, every scar, Erik, _only mine_."

"Of course. Your name is written amongst the scars," he replied hoarsely, yanking my pantaloons and petticoat off in one jerk. Groaning his appreciation, he cupped my breasts in his hands, teasing the tips with his thumbs and making me squirm and grow more urgent in a need to undress him. "And your breasts are mine; only _I_ am allowed to hold them, …to kiss them." His mouth covered one nipple, sucking hard as if tender did not exist. He wanted to brand me, and I cried out my avid acquiescence.

One hand traveled ahead and slid between my trembling thighs, fingers sliding easily within as he hissed against my breast, "And _this_ is mine. Your Vicomte would claim I take you by force, but _here_ is my proof that he is wrong. You're so wet, Christine. You _want_ me, and I don't need to force you to it. I've barely touched you, and yet you melt with longing. You're mine, but…what if he steals you away? What if he plays _my_ game and takes you from me? What if he convinces you that _his_ love is real and imperative and mine is a degradation? I cannot bear my life without you, Christine. You _are_ my life. If I lose you-"

"You won't." I caught his unmasked face between my palms and stared with inarguable assurance into mismatched orbs. "You will _never_ lose me. This body will only ever be yours, this heart, this soul. I gave everything to you. Don't doubt me, Erik. _Please_."

He hesitated, but better than protest, he stood from the piano bench, catching me about my waist and pulling my bare body to him. Holding my gaze with fierce strength in his, he growled at me, "_Mine_, and _he_ will never have this. _Never_. Let him desire with his eyes and fantasize your naked form in his arms, but it will _never_ be his reality." His fingers thrust deep into my wetness again, and I buried a cry against his neck. "Feel this, _ange_. Know _who_ brings you such sensations, who controls your wanting. Your husband, the father of your child: such titles mean so much beyond monster. _They_ are what I am always aspiring to be; they are _my_ greatest fantasy. Your _husband_ desires you, lives for you, would die for you. You are _everything_ to me."

"Erik…" I gasped his name, wanting to repeat the sentiment but unable to find so many words when his fingers were imitating the motion of lovemaking and leaving me to cling to his shoulders for balance. My hips rocked and arched of their own accord, following his rhythm and beseeching more.

"Tell me, Christine," he commanded in thick tones. "Do you want pleasure? Is it _your_ choice and freely made? Do you want my desire inside of you, or do you dub it rape every time I take you? _Tell me_."

He halted his endeavors abruptly, and reality rattled my mind in fragmented pieces as I deciphered his words. It shocked me how much Raoul's insinuations had affected him. My husband was terrified he forced me to his bed and thinking himself a monster yet again… No, I made my wanting bold and pronounced, kissing his misshapen mouth with lips that devoured. My tongue licked the malformed swell of his upper lip and tempted a path inside, delving deep and tasting every contour.

Erik moaned desperately against me, pinching my skin with urgent hands that drew me to the carpet. He wasn't gentle, and I didn't want him to be. I encouraged roughness, clawing at his scarred chest as he hastily removed his pants and underclothes. I whimpered my wanting to glimpse his straining erection and know he wanted me so much. Locking my legs about his, I sought to guide him inside, making it always apparent that _I_ pushed desire, but he was stronger and kept distance long enough to meet my eyes and read my expression.

"I love you," I vehemently whispered before covering his deformity in kisses, and with a frantic groan, he surrendered and plunged deep. I loved that sensation more than any other, that recognition that went through my blood stream and named my love, that feeling of stretching and filling. It was as if the hollow carved into my very being finally cemented, as if I were incomplete as one body alone and only whole when he took the emptiness away. I sought to share the notion, racing incessant caresses along his marked back and clinging with arms and legs to draw him deeper, more inseparable from my core.

"_You_ are my husband and my love," I vowed against his ear as his every thrust pushed me into the carpet until the rubbing and chafing hurt my skin. I savored every burn; it wouldn't be permanent, but I knew I'd carry the sting to my bones. "There will _never_ be another."

"And I?" he gasped between harsh breaths. "I will never love again and never know love but yours. I will die without a heart because I've given it to your care. Forever, Christine, my heart is yours. Do with it as you will. Break it, bruise it, destroy it, but don't leave me. I beg you."

I wanted to lay more oaths, but he met my lips in a frantic kiss, so I let the motion of our fervent mouths speak for me. Harder with intent, and as I felt the delicious rush of pleasure engulf me, he followed me to ecstasy, moaning against my lips and fisting his hands in my curls.

That wasn't the end. No, of course not. How could one bout of lovemaking solder souls, not when Erik's doubts were an incessant script in the back of his eyes. Night went on, and he never let me go. He sought assurances in joined bodies and caressing hands, in long phases of adoration and words that sounded so beautiful on his tongue. He didn't need such extremes; my heart was anchored and convicted to where it rested, but I did not hesitate to speak vows over and over again, praying at least one would penetrate his haze of uncertainty and leave an impression behind. More words, more touch, more taste, and we only parted when the baby's cries shattered our moment.

But I was aware that Erik was yet afraid as he kept close and loomed in the doorway of the nursery to watch me tend to Bastien. His anxiousness was a living being in the room with us, heavy without eased edges despite every intimacy shared. I was doubtless it would never be extinguished, but I kept silent and calm for the baby's sake. Everything else was held in suspension.

I worried that the bigger threat to our happiness was Erik himself, and Raoul was nothing but the flickering shadow in the background. But all I could do as I met our son with an attempted smile was pray that our life remained intact and unshaken. Optimistic, I knew, but hope had sustained us through every tribulation. I wasn't about to let it go now when we needed it most.


	10. Chapter 10

Hello, people! Well, we are almost at the end! Only a couple more chapters of this one left! I'm so happy it's being enjoyed and I thank you all for reading and appreciating my story! :)

As I've been excitedly telling everyone, my novel "The Devil's Galley" is going to be available in ebook format in this upcoming week with print to follow soon! I am so excited to share that story with you all as well. I have the blurb and excerpt posted on my website now and will be updating as soon as it is available! It's an intense love story about a haunted girl and a fallen angel, and I can hardly wait until it is out! A special thank you to everyone who has been pushing me to get it published since day one and to all of my fellow phans! If not for you guys, I would not be doing any of this. Thank you for being my support and my friends! :)

Chapter Ten

Things settled in the next weeks. No talk of the Vicomte, never a mention even though he existed in both our thoughts. Erik kept us out of the city with suspicions I did not discredit. His new insistence was on the subject of moving. A new house, a new city, _another_ new start. He talked about it all the time. The country was huge, he said, and we should not confine ourselves so quickly to one little corner of it. I didn't argue aloud, only in my head. I liked our house; I'd been attached to it since the instant Erik had brought me for the first time and called it home. _Home_ was not a term either of us used lightly considering we'd barely had one before this, and I didn't want to lose it.

But… With Erik's fear keeping him constantly on edge and guarded, I wondered if moving truly was the best option. I couldn't imagine living the next years with him alert to every creak in the house and muttering about making traps as he had in the catacombs. _Traps_! And all I could imagine was Bastien growing up locked indoors because of his father's paranoia or worse yet, hurt by one of Erik's traps to supposedly keep us safe. That wasn't a future I wanted. Moving began to seem a blessing.

Spring was drifting into summer, and with the warm, clear days, I started to grow restless. Opening the windows wasn't enough when the sunshine called to me and whispered how delicious its caress was upon skin. Since I was not about to suggest another trip _anywhere_, I resigned myself to working in the small garden behind the house. It was always within sight of the back windows for my obsessive husband's observation, but it meant fresh air and something purposeful to do. I had never tended a garden. I had to learn what were weeds and what were not, but thankfully, the previous owners had done the basic planting and the sprouts came up on their own as yearly blossoms. I just had to keep the soil bed clean and watered. It left me plenty of time to sit in the sun and try to forget everything I'd rather not think over.

Erik was not keen on joining me, preferring the roof over his head, and I recalled how often he hibernated in the catacombs of the opera when things in the world above were overbearing. Being contained was security, and outdoors was frightening. I didn't argue with him, and I tolerated his continuous peering out the windows without annoyance or anger. He checked on me often enough to say he wasn't thrilled with my need to be past the doorway, but to my surprise, he never posed the argument I knew spun in his mind. He allowed me and didn't protest even when I began to take Bastien outdoors with me in his shaded pram. I couldn't reason confining our son to the house. He was a baby on the way to someday being a little boy. He needed to learn to play and enjoy the sunlight. I didn't want him to suffer a life in shadows as his father had.

I began to spend more and more of my afternoon outside, hoping Erik would finally give in and join me at some surprising point. But he was more stubborn than I gave him credit for. He stopped looming like a ghost in the windows but only to return to his music. The piano's timbre poured out and accompanied my gardening ventures as he worked with only the occasional pause to rush to the back windows and peek out at me. It was minimal trust at best, but at least it was something.

One afternoon with the piano ringing in my ears, I tied a bonnet over my curls, one with a wide enough brim to shade the sun from my face, and hurried to get Bastien. To my dismay, he was asleep in his cradle beside his playing father, his sweet, little features relaxed and beautiful as he rested so blissfully. I stilled to watch him a few long minutes, marveling as I often did. It was impossible to gaze at him and not be overcome with a wave of pure love so intense that it brought tears to my eyes.

"Brahms put him to sleep," Erik called from the piano. "I guess there's a legitimate reason they call that piece the 'Lullaby'. Well, we can add Brahms to his list of enjoyed composers. Our little one has distinguished tastes."

"Does that truly surprise you? He's _your_ son." I teased as I crept closer and guided a fond caress along his scarred cheek. "He's just like his father."

"And does that please you or frighten you?"

"A little of both," I concluded with a sigh. "Let's just hope he doesn't want his career path to include haunting opera houses."

"That we are in complete agreement upon." He ran his eyes over me even though he never arrived at his cadence, keeping hands employed while his gaze said they _wanted_ to be engrossed elsewhere. "And are you going out into the garden?"

"Yes, for a little while. There are clouds in the distance. I'm concerned rain is coming. …Won't you join me, Erik?"

"Not today, Christine," his usual answer, and I had yet to find the correct 'today' that resulted in his company. "But take care to leave the bonnet on this time. Your cheeks are becoming red as a tomato from the sunshine, and if you keep at it, I fear I will be forced to buy you straw hats and overalls. …Where has my opera diva gone?"

"She's domesticated," I proudly stated and giggled as I kissed his cheek. "But ask nicely, and perhaps she will make appearances now and again if only for her angel teacher and his lessons."

"I've 'asked nicely' a dozen times and gotten nothing but excuses. The baby has taken precedence over your stage career. He's destroying our rehearsal time."

"Convince him to start liking high notes in his strict musical tastes, and perhaps we'll resume our lessons, and do it quickly before I accept your offer for straw hats and overalls."

And with that and another kiss to his scars, I scampered from the parlor and out through the back door, missing my usual comrade but content to let him nap if that was his choice. Oh well… I had plenty to keep my attention. Buds and flowers and butterflies that fluttered over the blooms. I wished Erik could find the same joy I had in such simple pleasures. His amazement at autumn and winter had encouraged me, but now that the Vicomte was a reality, it seemed he had returned to dark and shadows.

I could hear the piano's song as a Mozart sonata began and hummed softly as I dug out a weed, making a face at my dirt-smudged fingers. Manual labor, I truly _was_ domesticated.

"Vicomtesses never soil their hands. They have no need to toy with dirt beds, and their flowers are kept neat and pretty in vases."

My attention darted to the far end of the garden where Raoul stood watching me. Gasping beneath my breath, I shot a look at the back windows, but the allegro was still playing and told me no one watched. No guardian angel spying… Should I be afraid?

"I…I like toying with dirt beds," I stammered, immediately on guard, "and if that puts soil on my hands, so be it. …What are you doing at my home, Raoul? How did you find us?"

"Dr. Stevens," he replied, his gaze lingering a bit too long for my comfort upon my upturned face before he explained, "I reasoned that the child meant you'd required a doctor's assistance, and I sought the best in the city. One mention of a masked man, and the doctor knew exactly who I meant."

"And he simply…told you where we lived?"

"With a bit of a lie on my part. I portrayed myself as a cousin fresh off the boat from France and searching for my family. He is a kind man and was eager to help."

And to think despite our secluded life, the one visitor we'd ever had was the same to unwittingly betray us. I fisted my dirty hands in my lap and insisted again, "Why are you here? Both Erik and I made it clear that _this_ is where I belong with my husband and son."

"Your husband made it clear with anger and threats," the Vicomte reminded as he took tentative steps nearer. "As always, he would inflict any damage necessary to hold onto you and not allow you the chance to go against his desires."

I shook my head. "No, it is _my_ choice. Marrying him was my choice, and so is living with him as his wife. I love him."

"I'm not convinced that's true. You loved _me_ once. Do you even recall it? You said the words. I don't believe love faded, but rather that it was forcibly snuffed out of existence. You can't tell me you love him when before he took you, I know you loved _me_."

I didn't reply, unsure what to say. I had indeed vowed love to Raoul, and at the time, I was certain I meant it. Love, but in its most mundane and congenial form. It wasn't even a shadow of what I'd always felt for Erik, but in its right, it _was_ love.

Raoul knelt beside me on the ground, and after he'd criticized dirty fingers, I wondered what he thought of the dirt that would most certainly smudge his pants for his effort.

"Christine," he spoke my name as if I were fragile, "I would give anything for you to love me again, for you to have the _choice_ to love me. It isn't fair that our chance was stolen from us. We were never allowed to have our love story because _he_ always stood in our way. And even when I thought he was gone and we were finally free by _his own doing_, he came again and destroyed the future we were meant to have. How is it fair to force you with ultimatums? That last night he gave you no other option but him lest he kill me; then he let you go as if he'd grown a spark of compassion and mercy, and then just as quickly, he recanted and took you again. Of course you were confused. You never had the opportunity to grasp your path before it was ripped out from under you and a new one was put in its place. None of this is your fault."

I listened, and it hurt because his words made sense. If I loved him, everything he said would ring true. But I knew where my heart lay; it beat with the music streaming out from the open windows of the house and the master behind such melody's creation.

"Christine," Raoul continued and sought to retain my focus as I cast glances at the house as if willing Erik to come. "Please just consider my words. You need not make firm decisions now. I am only here to present another option when he gave you only one. We were engaged; we planned a future. Do you remember that night?" A reminiscent grin tugged his lips as he repeated facts already drifting through my memory. "We sat out in the gazebo on my estate and plotted a fairytale. Our wedding, huge and extravagant, moving to my aunt's country house for awhile, taking our time to start a family." His smile dropped its curve, the pain like a persistent illness in his gaze as he pointed at the house and insisted, 'That baby should have been mine. We planned for children: you and I and our own little family. And he crept in like the phantom he is and put himself in my place as husband and father. He took you and what should have been my son."

I hated myself at that moment, carrying blame equal to Erik's. I'd done this to Raoul, written dreams and engraved a libretto and then deviated from my cast role. I'd spoken love to one man and married another. I was the same deceiver Erik was.

"Raoul, …I'm sorry. I-"

"No, don't," he insisted and caught one of my hands, dirt-smudged, but he didn't seem to care as he entwined our fingers. "Just consider. It doesn't have to be a dream shattered. You could come away with me. I'd find a place where he'd never be able to discover us, somewhere where it would just be your and I and _our_ love story."

"But Bastien is-"

"Your son, I know," he quickly went on. "I could give you a dozen children to replace him, or…we could take him with us. I understand that you are his mother; you would love him no matter who or _what_ his father is. And for you, I would learn to love your boy. I would be a good father to him as if he were indeed my own. Christine, …don't say no yet. Think it over."

He squeezed my hand and got to his feet before I could protest. One more look that spoke his hope in a blatant glow, and then he left me alone in the garden as music embraced me and granted solace with its possessive caress. 

* * *

><p>I didn't tell Erik about Raoul's impromptu visit, sure it would have him rushing after with a noose and building us a labyrinth in the earth to cut us off from life completely. The rain came that night, heavy, drenching, and continuing for the next three days. It ended my afternoon sojourns in the garden, and yet I wasn't sure I wanted to be outside anymore. It felt exposing now that Raoul knew where we lived. How I hated to carry such paranoia! I was becoming as anxious as Erik!<p>

I felt that I was waiting for Raoul's inevitable return. He wanted an answer to an irrelevant question. I knew I'd never consent to his wishes and dreaded having to break his heart all over again. But it was necessary.

"Christine."

I had just put Bastien to bed in his nursery, and returning to the parlor, I found Erik awaiting with worried eyes. "What…is it?" I stuttered breathlessly as my mind conjured fabricated explanations that included the Vicomte.

"Something's wrong, isn't it?" he demanded, and I went numb, wide-eyed as I quickly sat beside him on the couch and tried to read his mask-less face.

"What…why do you ask such a thing?" As if already in appeal, I captured his hands in mine and wove our fingers together, digging my fingertips into his knuckles.

He watched me oddly, and I wasn't sure what that meant. "Well, because you went from begging me to delight in the outdoors to becoming as much of a recluse as I choose to be. It hasn't rained in the past two days. Nothing but beautiful blue skies and sunshine, and I'm certain your flowers miss your lovely presence. …I should not have to accentuate the pleasures of the outdoor world to _you_; that is backwards, wouldn't you say? So tell me, _ange_, why have you ceased your afternoons in the garden?"

"Oh, …you'll think I'm ridiculous. …I saw a snake out amongst the flowers." Only half a lie if one considered that the devil took the form of a serpent in the Garden of Eden to tempt Eve to sin. I saw a parallel and used it as fact and analogy at the same time.

"A snake?" He chuckled as he brought one set of joined hands to his lips and grazed kisses to my knuckles. "Indeed? And it frightened you so much to keep you away from sunshine and earthly delights?"

"Yes," I answered honestly but could not form even the slightest smile with the heavy thoughts spinning behind the lie. "I'd rather be indoors with you anyway. You know how I adore hearing you play."

"Almost as much as I adore hearing you sing, but lately, your talents have been reserved for our son and I have a mind to be jealous. I have to listen and spy at the nursery doorway just to overhear your beautiful voice. How can you torture me so?"

The smile appeared and was genuine. "How very reminiscent of the Opera Ghost you act whenever you like!"

"Watching from the background," he agreed and yet melancholy never appeared with the revelation. "But I have ample reason. If you knew I listened all the time, you wouldn't sing the way you do: no technique or support. You just _sing_, and you know I'd be teacher first and never allow you to get away with that. But…you have such a beautiful voice, Christine. I miss hearing it more than you realize." Kissing my knuckles again, he asked, "What are the songs you sing Bastien, those lullabies that always calm him when you rock him?"

"For as refined as you dub our son's taste in music, he proves it isn't always the composition. It could solely be the rendition if it's created with love in one's heart. I sing him the Swedish lullabies my mother used to sing to me. They're nothing elaborate or overdone; they're…simple, but I sing them with my own memories to add love to every pitch."

"Sing it like that to me," Erik shamelessly begged, and before I could answer, he added, "I will offer no criticism to technique; I vow it. I just want to hear you sing and not from the shadows this time."

I wondered if he realized how difficult agreeing to his terms was for me. Here was the angel I had always sought to please, desperate for his approval and pride. He was a strict perfectionist; he_ always_ listened for technique, no matter what he tried to tell me. It was impossible for him to step back from being my teacher. I was tempted to refuse his request simply because I wanted him to think better of me than that.

But he had his own agenda, and shifting on the couch cushions, he laid down and set his head upon my lap, gazing up at me with adoration and awe in his mismatched eyes. How I savored every time I was granted that expression! It was beautiful etched on such abnormal features, like a new creation of art altogether.

"Sing to me, Christine," he pleaded, and I shivered merely to hear the command in that golden voice. And yet…not 'sing _for_ me'. No, 'sing _to_ me'. He didn't want a show or the performance he usually sought, and he seemed adamant that I realize it. This had no aspect of _his _authority and tutelage; this was only a song for his pleasure. He couldn't have requested it in a better or more convincing manner.

Stroking his face with my fingertips, I parted nervous lips and began to sing to my angel the way I sang to our son. The lullaby was in Swedish; for as educated as Erik was, I doubted he understood the words. But he didn't seem to care, taking away the need for perfection I expected by staring at me in rapt wonder, shivering as I came to the chorus and sang every line with tender passion and brushing adoring kisses to my fingers as they grazed his lips in endless caresses.

It was a simple song, purely voice in a lyrical melody, and as it ended and I stopped, I glimpsed disappointment. "This is how I wish to spend forever with you," he breathed and lifted his hand to my face to mimic my every touch. "Promise me a song every night. I can't endure the rest of our lives without your voice, and if I must settle for Swedish lullabies, I will with whole heart and soul. Although…tell me you don't miss it, and I'll never ask again. The stage, Christine. Performing, the music, the applause and admiration of a world ready to fall at your feet. Once it's in your blood, it doesn't fade away, not even when life throws complications in your path."

"Of course I miss it, but…you and Bastien mean more to me than the music. I know _you_ don't understand how that can be."

He chuckled and shook his head, turning to set a kiss to my thigh. I felt the brand of his mouth through every layer in between and couldn't control a shiver. "You are _wrong_. For so long, music was all I had, but now, I have something even better. I would put you and our son before the music every time, Christine, but just because you are more important doesn't mean I need to forget the music entirely. And neither do you. I love you. I want you to have your dreams as well and so much happiness, more than you ever thought possible. Tell me you wish to perform again; I will have you back on the stage, and you will have your husband and son there to see every performance as your greatest fans."

I was doubtless he meant his words. As much as he preferred to keep me as a nightingale in a barred cage, he respected my talent and his molding hand in its progression. He loved the applause I received as much as I did. But…there was still the Vicomte lingering about to consider. If I truly wanted everything Erik offered, I had to rid myself of unnecessary heroes first.

"I love you," I told Erik as I cupped his face between my hands and bent to brush my lips to his.

"Is that a yes?"

I made it seem a great contemplation before nodding with a grin, and to my delight, he lifted himself onto his elbows and captured my mouth in a full and eager kiss that I returned wholeheartedly, clasping him with urgent hands and loving him to the depths of my soul for his excitement.

As he drew back for a breath, I laughed and declared, "And you once threatened to lock me up and never let me out to keep me! Now you want to showcase me back on the stage?"

"It would be the greatest sin imaginable to silence your talent," he insisted back, cupping my face in his palms. "More than that. You've given me so much, Christine: a life, a love, a son, a future. I want to give you your dreams in return."

"You already have," I promised and kissed him again, hard and yearning, tasting him with an eager tongue and savoring his shudder of wanting. A kiss was transforming into an invitation, and as desire engulfed, I had half a mind to beg him to continue as we lingered on the parlor couch.

Erik drew lips away and breathed kisses down my throat with a long devotion against my voice box as if it were his greatest treasure, and before I could return the gesture, I felt…_eyes_. I went stiff against Erik and darted a gaze about the parlor, scanning every dark window frame, and though I never found even a silhouette, I was certain what I'd felt. Someone had been watching from the shadows.

"What's wrong, _ange_?" Erik bid, brushing his fingers through my hair and trying to read my expression.

"Nothing," I replied with a forced grin, and yet I remained alert and wary.

What could I do? I was doubtless _who_ would dare spy upon us, and if I told Erik, he'd become frantic and deadly and search for the Vicomte with a vengeance. I didn't' want Raoul dead just as much as I didn't want to concede to his offer. I'd stolen Raoul's fantasies of our intended future; I didn't want to be responsible for stealing his life as well.

"I…thought I heard Bastien," I lied and hated Raoul for all the fabrications I needed to protect him. "Will you go and check?"

"Only if you vow to meet me in bed," he posed with a revealing smile and a provocative kiss to my collarbone.

I shivered from more than desire but quickly replied, "Yes, of course." As he disentangled from me and I lost the warmth and nearness of his body, I added, "With all this talk of the stage and our future, I think it best that we find a new home first."

He arched a skeptical brow. "I thought you weren't fond of the idea of moving."

"I wasn't, but…perhaps it would be best. We could find a small town with a theatre, not a large city, nothing overly suspicious. We could live without much scrutiny in a smaller place." _And hide_, my mind thought it, but I never dared speak it.

Erik weighed the idea with a thoughtful shrug. "Perhaps. We'll discuss it tomorrow. Right now, baby and then bed. I can't reason beyond wanting you at present."

Desire flamed in his final stare and seemed to say that the instant we were together again, he would devour me. I wanted to choose only desire to muse upon, but the second Erik was beyond sight, I ran for the door and turned the knob with trembling fingers. Careful and so anxious that my heart was a pounding drum against my ribcage, I peeked out at dark night and surveyed the porch in every direction. I was half-afraid a shadow would leap out and grab me, carry me away without the choice I'd already made to matter for anything.

But I found nothing but the usual silhouettes, nothing worthy of the apprehension coiling through my limbs. Nothing, …and I doubted intuition's pull and blamed Erik. He had made me ready to search for nonexistent threats and will them into reality. I was going crazy, and proof came with an empty porch and no eyes gazing back at my insanity.

Still, I locked the door with unsteady fingers and shut out any consideration of intruders. No, no…we were safe. No one was looming about, and besides, I was married to the Opera Ghost. He'd never allow anything bad to happen. He'd keep us safe; only a fool would dare cross him. 

* * *

><p>I awoke with a start as the sun's first rays peeked inside. Erik was still asleep beside me, dawn's light illuminating his scarred features in gentle caresses. It was unusual for him not to be up sooner, but considering how completely I had exhausted him, it was understandable. The hint of a reminiscent smile touched my lips as I emerged from bed and drew on discarded underclothes. My fingers were tying my chemise into place when all of a sudden, they quivered in their task and froze. Something was wrong. Intuition spoke, and I listened.<p>

My breath caught in a choked gasp in my lungs as I scurried on bare feet across the wood floor and out into the hallway. Oh God… My mind turned the night's events over and over again, but even in the midst of fatigue, I didn't recall either Erik or I getting up with the baby.

Bastien was set to his schedule. He got up every four hours to eat, and while the subtlest flicker of rationale posed that perhaps he'd slept all night as babies were _supposed_ to do that eventually, intuition pulled again and sought an _illogical_ explanation. Intuition was the one to tell me what to expect before I even entered the nursery.

I found…nothing. No threat, no danger, …and equally, no baby asleep in his crib.

"No," I whimpered as my stability was knocked from under me, and I clenched the crib's railing with violently shaking hands. "No, no, no…"

My eyes ran over the disheveled blankets left in Bastien's place in desperation, sure he _must_ be there, that I must be imagining an empty place. But where else would he be if not the crib? No, no, he couldn't be gone, not taken from me… _No_.

Tears rimmed my eyes and choked my breath as I sought to recall every detail of the previous night, and all I dwelled upon with a rush of blame was the spying presence I'd felt. Oh God, had I just said _something_ to Erik, then Bastien would be lying in his crib, greeting me with his sweet grey eyes that insisted he knew I was his mother. _His mother_. Yes, and I was not about to lose that title. It was the most blessed one I'd ever had.

Scanning the nursery with wide, desperate eyes, I only then noted the open window and the fresh air breezing in. Ah yes, because I'd locked the front door and kept an intruder from using its entrance. So…he'd climbed up to the baby's room window instead. Climbed inside and stolen my child. If this were indeed Raoul's doing, I would _never_ forgive him.

I had one conclusive thought. If Raoul had taken Bastien, he'd want me to know because the baby was not his real aim: I was. This was a way to get to me, and as such, he'd have left _something_ to tell me so.

…And there it was. Tied to the closet door as if it were a random article and nothing worthy of focus. No one would look more than once and decipher the hidden meaning. A red scarf that was practically a replica of the one Raoul had retrieved from the sea for me at our very first meeting. It dangled like a badge of guilt with ends that rustled gently in the morning's breeze. Raoul in Bastien's room, stealing him away like the phantom he'd dared to call my husband. At the core of my blinding fear came anger so intense that I shook with its surge. How dare he? _How dare he_!

"Christine, …is something wrong?"

I darted guilt-ridden eyes to the doorway and met Erik's intent expression. How was I going to explain this? Anger reverted to fear, and the tears came faster. It didn't matter that I knew _he_ would choose rage because beneath it, there would be pain and terror the same as my own. His precious son kidnapped by the Vicomte. …What could be said to soften such a horror?

"Christine?"

"Bastien's gone," I blurted out in a sob.

"Gone? What do you mean 'gone'?" Every word built in anxiety until he rushed into the room and hurried to the crib, jerking the blankets about with frantic hands. "Christine, where…what…where is our son?"

I swallowed hard and shuddered when he met my eye and showed his desperation, vulnerable and without barriers. "…Raoul took him."

Rage. It built like a rapid inferno, stealing my beloved and adored husband and making him the monster he didn't want to be. He stalked for the door at a furious pace, and I lunged after him, grabbing his sleeve as he entered the hallway.

"Erik, don't!"

He rounded on me so fiercely that I was thrown backwards and only caught my fall as my palms hit the doorframe. "_Don't_!" he roared, and I shuddered with the power, sobbing harder against the back of my hand. "He _took our son_! How dare you offer protest? Our _son_, Christine! Our _baby_! Any words of leniency on your lips are deceit and a sacrilege to our family."

"Erik, listen to me," I commanded in a sob.

"_No_. Declare your love for me all you like, but you will _still_ ask me to spare the Vicomte's life. He _took our child_, and you will forgive him for it! You'll offer explanation and apology and beg mercy because a piece of your heart is his. You can't win everything by keeping the peace. You claim you want _me_; then _tell him that_! Make him believe it because in his regard, there is still hope and a chance. And now because _you_ couldn't make a stand for our family, our child will suffer."

"He won't hurt Bastien-"

"Hurt? He's using our baby as his ultimatum! Hurt is irrelevant! I once dangled his life to win you; now he'll dangle Bastien's. I should have wrung his neck the first time!" Erik growled the words as he once again rushed for the stairs with me chasing anxiously behind.

"Where are you going?"

"To find our son."

"You don't know where to look."

Erik flipped about to face me, and I stumbled back from the malevolence in his fierce glare. "Then I will head into the city and check door to door if I must! Whatever it takes. I _will_ have my child back."

"I'm going with you," I insisted and sounded more convicted than I felt when he gave me such a look. It seemed that he hated me for no other reason than Raoul's existence.

"_You_! You are exactly what he is after with this stunt! You would do best to stay out of the way. You know I would put my life before Bastien's and yours, no matter what the Vicomte intends. If you are about, I jeopardize Bastien's welfare to keep you protected. Stay here."

"No." I put myself purposely in harm's way, running in front of his path and halting. To leave, he'd have to move me by force, and although I wasn't sure he wouldn't try, I held my ground.

"Christine! You've done enough to put us in this situation! Get out of my way!"

"_No_." I wasn't good at anger. It was foreign and an uncomfortable fit, but I chose it now in spite of my weakness and accused, "You blame _me_ and only me for this. You've spoken all these months about learning to forgive our sordid past, and yet you haven't at all. You hold a grudge and an inconsolable grief over my head for bringing Raoul into our lives, for running to him and convincing him once that he was my savior. You can't forgive me for _choosing_ _you_ that last night at the opera because no matter what I've said to you, you still believe I did it to save him."

"That was a year ago! When I was nothing but a nightmare monster to you! Now I am your husband, and I refuse to let you disobey me." He leaned threateningly close with resentment I had believed gone, and it stung me harsh and cold as he snapped, "You would truly pose this argument now? With our son in danger, you will drag our past follies to the forefront and remind me that _I_ am the villain? This is not the time."

"Yes, it is!" I shouted back. "If you can't forgive me, then what family are we fighting for?"

My words took him aback and gave him pause, and I used that as my opportunity, closing the gap between us to gently touch my fingers to his face. "I chose _you_ that night at the opera because I loved you," I spoke with honesty as my ally. "It was not to save Raoul. That was _your_ game, not mine. Forgive me for not being brave enough to tell Raoul and letting him believe what he wished. But don't punish him for the time you and I lost and the pain I created in another world and another time. Put it on me and let it go. Don't kill Raoul with my name upon your lips."

"He took Bastien," he protested, but anger dwindled the longer I kept him in my gaze and my touch.

"I know." I picked up the strength between us, and even as trepidation still twisted my stomach, I acted the role of confident and as inarguable as the Opera Ghost. "But he is _ours_, and we will get him back without murder or violence."

Perhaps I was naïve, but I couldn't bring myself to believe that Raoul intended to harm Bastien. He wanted leverage, but beneath the immorality of his actions, he was not the sort of man to kill an innocent child, no matter that Erik was his father. I believed it, and it eased the edge of my anxiousness, but an empty hole existed in my heart, one that could only be filled with my baby in my arms. And I refused to consider that would not be the outcome. We'd get him back; we had to.


	11. Chapter 11

All right, people! Here is the last chapter and epilogue of this story! I hope you have all enjoyed it, and once again, thank you for all of the kind words and support and for being such wonderful phans! :)

As some of you know, the first in my angel series "The Devil's Galley" was released in ebook format this past week! So yay! I would have celebrated it but literally spent the whole week in bed with the stomach flu! (Curse you, stomach bug!) So no doll pictures this time; maybe when the print version comes out! I DO have a fabulous angel costume to dress my Maggie doll in and everything! Yes, I'm crazy, and that's OK!

Anyway, enjoy these last chapters, and please anyone who is interested, the deadline for the cover contest is April 15th! Don't forget and please spread the word!

Chapter Eleven

Erik insisted we head into the city, denying any thought to wait for the Vicomte to act first. Though he'd still been resistant to my company, I won the battle by declaring that if he did not take me with him, I would leave at first second he was gone even if that meant _walking_ all the way there. My baby needed me, and I couldn't sit idly back and wait for news to arrive.

The journey to the city seemed never-ending and so much longer than ever before. Perhaps in the chaos, the world had its own reaction and shifted on its axis with my horror, making distances longer and putting me further from my child. It didn't help matters that Erik and I didn't speak beyond simple questions. We each carried our own fear and couldn't reason past it, but at some unknown point when tears had resumed and silently coursed down my cheeks, he reached over and clasped my hand. As usual, he was my constant angel, watching over me even when I didn't realize it. I slid my fingers between his and laid my cheek to his shoulder, knowing my tears wet his shirt, but he never drew notice beyond an attempted kiss to my crown with the mask in place. That simple act seemed to say we'd win, and I was so grateful that I burrowed a kiss to his jacket sleeve.

The city was never so large as when one had to search for a tiny baby in its midst. I'd heard the analogy of looking for a needle in a haystack; this felt like looking for a needle in the center of the ocean with no grounding point and no anchor. I knew where we were and yet felt lost just the same.

Logic told Erik to check the nicer hotels; logic told me to seek out Dr. Stevens. If he'd met Raoul, there was a chance he knew where to find him, and though Erik didn't want to separate, I insisted that Raoul could not abduct me on streets full of people and visiting the doctor would be my sole venture. I never gave him reason why I believed Dr. Stevens could help; no, I saved those confessions for after our child was returned to our arms.

Erik deposited me in the doctor's office before rushing onward, and though a crowd awaited their appointments, I shrieked at the waiting room nurse that I had an emergency, and like the good little actress I'd been trained to be, I faked pain so awful that I could barely stand upright or form words beyond cries. That achieved the desired result and had me moved to the front of the line.

"Madame!" the doctor exclaimed with wariness the instant he ran into he room with me. "What happened? Are you all right? Where is your pain?"

"My heart," I admitted, genuine and true as I rushed alongside him and grabbed his sleeve urgently. "My baby has been stolen."

"What? Dear God, how can I help?"

"A gentleman came to see you, seeking our whereabouts. He called himself a cousin. Do you recall him? A Vicomte." I spoke in rushed phrases and was relieved when he nodded. "Did he mention where he is staying? Or a way to find him?"

"_He_ took your child? Well, let me see… He seemed distinguished and refined; I never imagined he intended to cause you harm when he asked for your home. I truly believed his countenance."

"He…is an old friend, …but he's also a jilted suitor. He was once my fiancé, and I fear he can't understand that I love my husband and chose him. Now he has my son, and I…" Tears choked off words, and I could not refrain from sobbing. I had been strong for Erik and wouldn't let him fall to his rage with pain at its axis, but…one image in my head of my child, of his plump, little face, of his eyes searching for me, and my heart ached in my chest and rendered me a blow that was practically physical in its assault.

The doctor patted my shoulder with concerned eyes and seemed frantic to seek some answer that would soothe me. "A…a ship, I think he said. Yes, that was it. He said if I recalled anything else, I should find him at the docks."

A ship… Well, that would draw less focus than hotel rooms and names. His family had enough funds to purchase the best design. The docks. I could go, leave now and find my son. He was nearly in my grasp, but…would Erik forgive me if I did this alone? Raoul's actions were not my fault, but his lingering presence in our lives was the product of my lack of strength. This was my mess to clean up; Erik had already made that evident.

"Thank you!" I gushed to the doctor and hugged the old man in my urgent gratitude, but he caught my hand before I could rush out.

"Madame, you cannot think to go after this fiend alone!"

"I have to. If Erik knew where he was… It's the only way to keep everyone safe. Thank you, doctor, but I'll be fine. I have to get my baby back."

And before he could concoct another argument with a rampant fear _he_ would offer to accompany me, I hurried from the office.

The sun was low in the sky, an entire day lost without my baby. I drew the hood of my cloak over my curls, longing to blend in, to disappear and move like the Opera Ghost amongst shadows and bodies. Seen but unseen. Ducking between streetlights and slipping into an alleyway, I ran with my cloak trailing behind like a cape. The Opera Ghost. Well, I was _his_ wife by choice and conviction; I would make that decision known.

As the docks came into view, I was reminded of the day Erik and I arrived on the ship to start a new life. It was half a dream, and I couldn't let it be spoiled.

A woman alone was cause for suspicion, and I tried to avoid the lighting glow of streetlights, skipping beyond their pools and scampering with stealth so that my boots made little more than scrapes against the wooden deck. We were now at the height of summer, and as such, dozens of boats were docked, most dark and abandoned for the night. I wasn't sure what I was seeking, and as I scanned every gangplank and tied vessel, I kept guard raised.

I was no fool. I realized that this could be a trap. I had come after my child and put myself in jeopardy of being taken onto a boat with Bastien and cast off before Erik ever learned where we were. But I had faith and gave Raoul a modicum more credit than that. I refused to believe he would simply take me as if it were his right.

The sweetest sound I'd ever heard tingled my ears and made my heart beat vibrant and alive again. Bastien. I knew that cry; I could never mistake it for any other, and it called to me like Erik's music, drawing me in with or without consent. I felt my wariness fall secondary to a need to be with my son. He cried again, and I could swear that particular timbre meant he looked for _me_.

Creeping quick and silent, I hurried for one of the only lit boats anchored at the dock. Not overly large but luxurious, the shiny new toy of a spoiled boy. I scanned its details and watched with a swell of relief and emotion as Raoul emerged from the small cabin onboard with Bastien in his arms.

The baby was inconsolable, shrieking despite Raoul's flustered attempts to calm him with a bottle and soft swaying. "Sshh," the Vicomte gently bid, "it's all right, little one. It's all right. You don't need to cry so."

It shocked me to wide eyes and gaping. The Vicomte de Chagny who rarely did anything for himself, and he was rocking Bastien and grinning at him, making silly faces, anything to get the baby to relax. Even in days when Raoul and I had discussed family during our short engagement, the idea of him in the role of father had seemed perplexing and unrealistic. He'd been raised by a nursemaid as most upper class children were; they were not considered priorities until they were old enough to fit into an adult's world. I had assumed he'd expect the same for our children, and I'd have to fight to be with them and be a real _mother_ to them. But…I looked now and saw a man who might have been a good father. It was a pity that the child in his arms was _not_ his, and the role was already perfectly cast.

Despite every effort made, Bastien screamed onward, and unable to bear the ache in my heart any longer, I rushed along the gangplank and boarded Raoul's boat. I was immediately reminded why I didn't favor boats as my balance shifted out from under me. Ah, the unsteady waves. How I preferred solid land!

"Christine, …I knew you'd come."

I stared at him, wary and on guard as I approached, but he did not pose argument as I reached for my son. He handed him over, and in spite of every horrible detail, I knew I rush of gratitude simply to have my child safe and in my arms. Unwanted tears filled my eyes, but I gazed at that scrunched, little face, still mid-cry, and I felt whole again.

"Sshh," I crooned as I ran my fingers over every feature and made sure they were as beautiful as I'd left them. "Mama's here, sweet boy. Sshh, no more tears. Mama's got you."

The sound of my voice soothed him instantly, and cries halted as he gazed back at me. I wondered if he were doing the same and studying me for changes, making sure his world was intact again. I beamed at him through my unending tears and pressed him firmly to my heart.

"That's amazing." Raoul's assessment broke our reunion and reminded me that I was on a shifting boat upon the water with him, not home. "He's been fussy all day, but one word from his mother and he stops."

"Of course," I retorted, clutching Bastien tighter yet. "You are a stranger to him."

"Yes, but he's so small. It's easy at that age to forget things and have life reconstructed from its base. He wouldn't recognize the loss for long if he were just as loved, even if new details were put in place."

I understood the unspoken implication and did not hesitate to state it aloud. "You mean if _you_ took the place of his father."

He shrugged, nonchalant, and yet I knew without doubt that I'd hit the mark and pushed, "So _that_ was your intention with this scheme. It wasn't to use the baby as an ultimatum to get me to leave with you. You wanted to be Bastien's father. You wanted the baby."

"I want _both_ of you," Raoul stated, and I couldn't help but back up a cautionary step.

"I don't understand. This is _Erik's_ child, and yet you crept into our home and stole him. Why would you do that?"

"Because that monster does not deserve a child." He heaved the insult cold and bitter, and I cringed merely to endure it. "He's a murderer and a deviant. Why does he have the right to raise a child? Considering the weight of his sins, you cannot make a valid argument to the fact."

"He loves Bastien," I stated with inarguable certainty. "He would _never_ hurt his child. You speak to me of the past, and that is _not_ the life we have chosen to lead. Erik is not a murderer or a monster here; he is a husband and a father. He's a better man for me and Bastien."

"And so he should not be held accountable for his crimes because he has a new life in a new country? The lives he's taken no longer matter an ocean away?" Raoul shook his head doubtfully and insisted, "And what will you tell your son someday? Will he ever be made to learn the truth of his father's past? What if he should research and find out on his own? I doubt there are many disfigured and masked musical geniuses to come out of France. It wouldn't be hard for him to find documentation of the famed Opera Ghost and his crimes. Your child deserves a better life than calling a murderer father."

"That is _my_ choice to make."

"And yet your judgment is clouded. I saw enough last night to convince me that _this_ was the right course."

"Last night…" So intuition had been right, and it wasn't paranoia. Someone had been watching. "Last night when you picked up Erik's old role and spied on us in your jealousy." I spoke it with spite and felt Bastien grow uncomfortable and move restlessly in my arms. He didn't favor my anger, and I had no choice but to lower my voice to a hiss as I added, "You had no right to spy and no right to touch my child. I ask you in polite terms to leave us be and go away because if Erik finds you, he will not hesitate to dole out punishment and I'm not sure I'll stop him. What you did…" Tears veiled my eyes with the mere consideration of the past day. "That surpasses every sin either of you has ever committed. I am this baby's _mother_, and I feared I'd never hold him again. No mother should ever have to know such a thought."

"I never intended to keep your child from _you_, Christine," the Vicomte tried to protest. "I wanted a chance to talk sense into you, and I knew the baby might be the only angle I had left. The baby must mean more than anything else, even your so-called husband and the love he's tricked you to feel. Put the baby first. Do you truly want Bastien to grow up with that monster as his father? You all but said that Erik will come after me and kill me for what I've done. You _justified_ my murder. Is that the kind of life you want for Bastien? I can give you both so much more than that."

"Love?" I posed and shook a dubious head. "Can you give us love, Raoul?"

"Yes! Of course! I love you, Christine! I wouldn't have come across the ocean to find you if I didn't!"

"That's not love. Beneath it all, you've always known I loved Erik. Love would have been letting me go."

"He stole you away-"

"But you _knew_ I loved him," I stated again. "You were always so adamant to paint him the monster and keep me from him because you were afraid that the moment I realized I loved him, you'd lose me."

"Christine…" But he could give no valid protest. We both knew I was right. Instead, he desperately offered, "I'll make you happy; I vow it. You and the baby. I'll give you both a wonderful life, _anything_. …You were supposed to be mine."

"But we're not yours; we're Erik's. …Please just go, Raoul. This is the life I've chosen, the _love_ I've chosen. And whatever our future holds, I will have no regret. This was always my path. I'm sorry. If I had been strong, I would have said goodbye that last night; I would have stayed with Erik even when he insisted I go. I knew our story wasn't over even then, and I should have broken your heart, but I was a coward. I never wanted to hurt anyone, Raoul, and you are a good man. …I'm sorry that I don't love you."

There were tears in his eyes, and it hurt me to be their cause. "But, Christine, I came to save you."

"No, you came to say goodbye," I said amidst my own tears. "Goodbye, Raoul."

I turned to go and refused to indulge a lingering fear that he'd grab me and force me away with him. But that wasn't who Raoul was. He truly believed every word he'd said to me. He was a good man; his shortcoming was that he wasn't Erik, and I'd given Erik my heart from the first moment. If only I'd been convicted and made that choice known to everyone. I'd have saved us all a lot of heartache.

"Christine!"

My heart leapt madly in my chest the instant I set foot upon the dock, and with a wide smile amidst tears, I rushed to meet Erik's approach, telling the eager baby in my arms, "Look who's here, Bastien. It's your Daddy. He missed you so much."

I glimpsed fear first and then relief in Erik's expression as he ran urgent eyes over both of us. "Bastien… Is he all right?"

"He's fine. How did you find us?"

"Dr. Stevens. That little old man is quite persistent when he has a purpose. He tracked me down through the city, if you can believe it. He was worried over your safety."

As he spoke, he looked past us, and I knew why. Holding his arm in a fist, I begged, "Let him go, Erik."

"You would truly ask that of me after what he did? And what happens when he strikes again? What if next time we aren't so lucky, and he takes Bastien halfway across the country and hides him where we'll never find him? Or what if he abducts _both_ of you, and I can't stop him?" Speculation meant helplessness, and the Opera Ghost hated helplessness.

"He won't," I asserted. "We just said goodbye."

"And you presume that ends everything? Forgive me for not having your faith in the man who snuck into our home and took our baby."

Bastien was getting anxious with Erik's angered tone, and in appeasement to them both, I put the baby in Erik's arms and noticed that they both calmed with one another's contact.

"Let's go home, my darling boys," I decided, kissing Bastien's head as he cooed and then Erik's hand. "And tomorrow let's start looking for our new life."

"Moving away, and you're so certain the threat won't follow?"

I hoped more than knew and concluded, "Just in case, set us warnings like you had in the catacombs. Not _traps_. I refuse to be afraid in my own home, but I never want to endure anything like this again."

His agreement was a tender caress to our baby's cheek, and I glimpsed for the quickest moment how deep his gratitude ran. Relief and a whispered oath beneath his breath like a prayer, and Erik lifted a caress to my cheek as well. "All right, you win, but you're not going to be able to keep preserving that boy's life if he comes after my family again."

"I know, but…I broke his heart and didn't falter. If he can't accept my choice, it isn't my fault anymore."

"Christine!" A call from the deck behind had us spinning about to potential danger. The Vicomte lingered at the rail of his boat, watching us with blatant despair. He and Erik exchanged cold glares, and Erik tensed and gripped my elbow firmly. But all Raoul added in a shout was, "Take care of the baby. …He's going to be a fine boy."

"Of course he is," Erik shouted back with anything but congeniality. "With Christine as his mother, that goes without question. _She_ is the one you can thank that you leave unscathed, Monsieur Vicomte, but mercy will be temporary if you come near her or our son again."

The Vicomte kept a spiteful glare on Erik a second more before locking eyes with me, "Goodbye, Christine."

To me, it felt as if a chapter closed with those words. Goodbye and finality, something a year ago, we'd been denied. It was necessary despite the appalling means to arrive at such a point.

I said a final farewell to my childhood savior and also to the Opera Ghost that night. Our life was about to go on without that arrogant and sinful façade. Oh, I did not doubt that the Opera Ghost would reappear from time to time, but I'd stopped him from transgressions. I felt that I'd won against Erik's immoral side as much as against Raoul's, and happiness was destined and imminent. We deserved it. We'd fought for it more than most. Happily ever after with every bliss and sugarcoated sentiment tied to the phrase. It was finally ours.


	12. Epilogue

Epilogue

Music filled the air of the parlor, light and happy, played with the precision and mastery of a virtuoso. I listened with deft attention to every turn of phrase and glorious articulation, awe and adoration glowing in my unending smile. A final ornament and determined cadence, and as large blue eyes darted to me for my approval, I clapped with an exuberant giggle to proclaim my delight.

"He's going to give Mozart competition for the title of _prodigy_!" Erik exclaimed as he rushed to embrace Bastien, pride written in tears upon his unmasked face. "Three years old and already playing sonatas with the skill of a trained pianist!"

"You are _not_ building a concert around him," I insisted back. "He's a little boy. He should be outside getting dirty and climbing trees, not obsessing over the perfect allegro with his father."

"Climbing trees? Getting dirty?" Erik shook a doubtful head and scooped Bastien up into his arms, asking, "What do you say to that, _enfant_? Do you want to play outside, or do you want to practice your allegro?"

"Allegro! Allegro!" the little boy shouted and hugged his arms about his father's neck.

"All right!" I conceded with another giggle. "How did I end up with two musical geniuses? As if _one_ weren't enough!"

"God made you lucky," Bastien replied with a wide grin. "Did I say it right, Daddy?"

Erik chuckled and pressed kisses to Bastien's cheeks. "Exactly, _enfant_! Your mother likes to forget just how lucky she is!"

"Well, it _is_ difficult to recall when the two of you play dueling pianos in the middle of the night," I agreed and gazed in adoration at my gentlemen. Bastien's dark curls had gone askew in his frantic playing and now sat upon his brow, tufted and framing his little features. Yes, he had _my_ curls, but his face… I was convinced he looked exactly like his father should have. It made his every expression dearer to my heart. And Erik… He was _happy_ and as close to ordinary as he'd ever been, and I loved him for it.

"That's inspiration time, right, Daddy?" Bastien quoted, and I shook my head. He was quite a facetious child, who took after his father in more than musical terms. How often he parroted back Erik's words as if they were scripture teachings!

"Right indeed, _enfant_."

"The two of you may enjoy being night owls," I continued to chide, "but Susanna and I favor our rest, and that is impossible with pianos playing day and night."

As if on cue to her name, a wail resounded from the nearby cradle, and I rushed to pick Susanna up, lifting her high in the air and deciding, "Your fervent agreement is appreciated, sweet girl."

Susanna regarded me with an unamused expression on her plump, little face. Four months old, and she had made quite an impression upon our household. She was a diva in the making, but despite Erik's best efforts, she was not the musical genius out of the womb like her brother. She was a normal little girl with flawless porcelain features that Erik proclaimed at every glimpse were my image.

Susanna… Well, Erik _had_ insisted on the name of an opera heroine, and I had insisted right back that it couldn't be a heroine connected with suicide or insanity, who died before the final chorus, or who did anything overly provocative. That cut his list to a handful of choices, and I had pushed for _Figaro_'s Susanna. Evidently, it had been the perfect inspiration because by my husband's own decree, our small opera house company would be performing _Figaro_ in the spring. It would be in Susanna's honor with her Mama in her namesake's role.

I brought Susanna to the couch and sat her on my knee. "Did you hear your brother's playing, Susanna love? Someday he can accompany our duets, and you and I will sing beautiful harmonies."

"You don't want me to force music on Bastien, and yet what are you doing, _ange_?" Erik taunted as he and Bastien joined us.

"Following in your footsteps and encouraging musical growth," I replied with a grin. "If they are _our_ children, it's their inevitable future."

I saw the gleam in his eyes that said he was fantasizing it again, and true to prediction, he concluded, "I see Bastien playing sold out concerts all over the country."

"And this little one?" I pushed as Erik stroked Susanna's cheek and made her smile.

"I will have my cherub singing before she's even speaking; mark my words."

"Oh, I never doubt my omnipotent angel."

As I watched, he leaned at Susanna's level and caught her chubby hand, bringing it to his lips for kisses. I was so proud of him. All this time with our children, and he didn't wear the mask. He left his scars exposed, and they never gave his face a second thought. To them, it was ordinary. The mask only appeared in the public eye, and Bastien found _that_ the oddity. He laughed whenever Erik put it on and called it his 'costume'.

Gazing at him with my heart in my eyes, I said, "Perhaps you should present the choice to Bastien instead of making it for him." Cupping my son's face in my palm, I asked, "What do you want to be when you grow up, sweetest boy?"

"Daddy," Bastien answered as if the answer was obvious, and Erik beamed and kissed his crown.

"What do you think of that?" I asked Erik and caught the flicker of tears he quickly hid. "To our son, _you_ are his greatest hero and idol."

"And what a blessing that is! Every _detail_ of our life is a blessing. I feel as if God has smiled upon me, and I am not forgotten."

"Any man who is loved is never forgotten," I replied, and as he pressed his hand to my cheek with adoration, I turned and kissed his palm, daring to linger with a telltale arch of brows.

I savored the provocative promise I received in his returned stare and a soft vow. "Later, _ange_."

Laughing softly to myself, I asked, "And would you say then that your dreams have come true? And that happily ever after includes a prodigious three year old, a baby who refuses to sleep through the night, a wife who becomes a dramatic diva around performance times, and _running_ an opera house as a manager rather than haunting one as a ghost?"

Bastien heard the term 'ghost' and began to howl like a lamenting soul and prove my point, but Erik chuckled with exuberance and declared, "As if I would have it any other way! _This_ is the dream. I never want it to end!"

Happiness danced along his damaged face and made him more beautiful than I'd ever seen him. My adored husband and our lovely, little family. Sometimes I considered our story and every obstacle we'd endured to arrive at such a moment, but if nothing else, hardship made us appreciate bliss more. It was a nightmare in blacks and greys, and now we'd awakened to a dream in rainbow hues and excited clarity. As long as we kept dreaming, happily ever after would continue on. I was certain it would last forever. Forever in a dream. What better bliss existed than that!


End file.
